18 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/poettributeOOtapp 


Ifroamp  si 


The  same  thy  hills   and  dells  ,  those  skies  th.e  same . 
Oetober.  —  and  the  si  walls, 

■.•  England.' s  infancy  are  t 

Sra/klin 


BOSlOlf. 
PUBLISHED    i'.Y   I)    S.KlNb  AND    CBOCKER  &  BBEWSTEH. 

1840. 


V  1  .  : 

THE    POET'S    TRIB 


POEMS 


WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN 


BOSTON: 

D.  S.  KING  AND  CROCKER  &  BREWSTER. 
1840. 


Evert  sound  poet,  who  does  justice  to  his  own  faculties,  and 
to  the  great  subjects  prepared  for  their  exercise,  is  of  a  sacred 
order.  Let  us  not,  then,  seek  to  limit  the  sphere  of  the  child  of 
song,  save  by  a  deep  sense  of  the  worthiness  and  responsibility 
of  his  calling.  Free  let  him  remain  to  shift  his  delighted 
"glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven  ;  "  —  to 
expatiate,  unfettered,  wherever  nature  invites,  or  imagination 
bears  him.  —  Introductory  Essay  to  Sacred  Poetry  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1839,  by 
D.  S.  King,  in  the  Clerk?s  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the 
District  of  Massachusetts. 


John  E.  Hull.  Printer 


WIFE   AND   COMPANION  !  —  WILT    THOU   TAKE  FROM    ME 
THIS  BOOK,  A  TRIBUTE  TO  OLD   LOVE  AND  THEE  ? 


CONTENTS. 

Paje 

The  Good  Wine, 13 

Woman, 15 

The  Choir, 16 

Better  Thoughts, 18 

Charity, 21 

The  Farm  School, 22 

The  Child  of  the  Tomb, 24 

Saturday  Evening, 26 

The  Sabbath, 28 

Niagara, 30 

Ship  of  the  Line  Pennsylvania,    .         .         .         .30 

Such  may  not  I, 32 

The  Unfruitful, 33 

Faithful  to  his  Constituents,      ....  35 
The  Old  North  Burial  Ground   in   Portsmouth, 

New  Hampshire, 36 

Purity, 39 

The  Future, 40 

Bethesda, 41 

Africa, 44 

Weep  not  for  the  Dead, 46 

Beauty, 47 

A  Simile, 48 


6 


The  Heavenly  Rest, 49 

Watch  Night, 50 

A  Heaven  of  Holiness, 52 

Jacob's  Well, 53 

Texas, 54 

Departure  of  the  Israelites,       ....         56 

The  Sea  of  Galilee, 57 

Elegiac, 58 

I'll  Look  to  Thee, 60 

A  Portrait, 61 

In  Memory  of  the  Preceding,        .         .         .         .63 

Madagascar, 66 

The  Cleansing, ,68 

The  Dedication, 69 

The  Opium  Ships, 70 

Day  of  Prayer  for  Colleges,      ....         71 

The  Palm  Tree, 74 

Sleep, 75 

Idols, 77 

Death  at  the  Mirror, 78 

Song  from  Scripture, 79 

Sunday  School  Missionary,       ....         80 

Dirge, 83 

Congregational  Church,  Philadelphia,      .         .         85 
Robert  Raikes,  in  the  Suburbs  of  Gloucester,       .    89 

The  Anger  of  Moses, 90 

The  Flag, 91 

Blessing  the  Battle, 93 

Mechanics'  Temperance  Hymn,    .         .         .         .94 
The  Bride  of  the  Canticles,      ....         96 


7 

To  a  Young  Lady  who  was  Baptized  in  Infancy,  97 

To  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.,         .         .         .         ■  98 

Smyrna, 99 

They  say  the  Goblet's  crowned  with  Flowers,  100 

Patient  because  Eternal, 102 

Apostrophe,     .....••  104 

Communion  Hymn, 105 

Nobility, 106 

Nipped  i'  the  Bud, 107 

Decay, 108 

John  Eliot, HO 

Names  of  Christ, HO 

Whitefield, HI 

Harriet  Newell, 112 

The  Bands  of  Prayer, 112 

Thomas  Shepard, 113 

The  Forgotten, 114 

Temperance  Song,           .....  115 

James  iv.  13,  14, 116 

Lazarus, 118 

That  Sad  Second  Childhood,      .         .         .         .121 

Fellowship, 122 

The  Silent  Street, 124 

The  Drunkard's  Death,           ....  126 

The  Quakeress, 129 

To  the  Monument, 131 

Sunday, 133 

The  Widow, 134 

The  Inconsistent, 135 

The  Gamblers, 137 


8 


Speech  of  the  Emperor  Nicholas 

Virginia  A.  D****, 

Common  Origin  of  Religion, 

The  Temple,  . 

I  am  for  Peace,    . 

The  Second  Arrow, 

The  Bible  Forbidden, 

Appeal  from  Bible  Countries, 

Lines  at  Lowell, 

The  Pressure  — 1837, 

Hymn  for  the  Times, 

Mount  Auburn, 

Confession, 

Foretastes, 

Idolatry, 

The  Faithful  Friend, 

The  Good, 

The  Burial  of  Moses, 

The  Happy  Man, 

The  Brahmin  Suicide 

To  the  Idolater, 

The  Appeal,    . 

The  Snare, 

Nature's  Worship, 

Compassion, 

The  Sons  of  God,  . 

Innocence, 

That  Look,      . 

The  Twenty  Thousand  Children, 

Laurel  Hill  Cemetery, 


9 


The  Voice, 184 

The  Poet's  Theme,  ,  185 

The  Advent, 186 

The  Dead  Boy, 187 

Wait  Working, 190 

Victoria, 192 

To  my  little  Son, 195 

True  Science, 196 

Shall  we  know  each  other  in  Heaven  ?       .         .  197 

Let  me  live  till  I  am  old,        ....  198 

The  Dead, 199 

The  Sailor  Boy, 200 

Funeral  of  Bishop  White, 201 

Brutality, 202 

The  Sandwich  Isles, 203 

Mortality  —  Immortality,         ....  204 

Early  Consecration, 207 

Many  Ways, 209 

The  Perfectionist, 212 

The  Bunker  Hill  Pile, 213 

Verses  for  a  Temperance  Society,       ,         .         .  214 

The  Mother  of  Lyman,  ....  215 

Youths'  Temperance  Ode,  ....  217 

The  Eleventh  Hour, 219 

Tract  Visitation, 222 

Horticultural  Grave -yard,       ....  223 

Charles  River, 224 

Mont  Pilatre, 225 

New  Organ  in  Christ  Church,  Philadelphia,       .  226 

A  Psalm  of  Sickness, 227 


10 


Everys, 

Remains  of  William  Nevins, 

Thomas  Greene  Fessenden, 

The  harvest  is  great,  the  laborers  few, 

Thoughts, 

Millennial  Hymn, 

Installation,  .         .         . 

An  Early  Death,     .... 

The  White  Mountains, 

The  Legacy, 

The  Voice  at  Sea, 
Progress  of  Temperance, 
Penitence  and  Prayer, 
Much  forgiven,  loving  much, 
Children  blessed  for  the  parents'  sake, 
Who  gazes  from  Mount  Olivet  ? 

The  Change, 

Organization  of  Congregational  Church 

The  Omen, 

Myself, 

The  Indifferent, 

Brookline, 

The  Devoted,      .... 
All  Night  in  Prayer, 
The  Face  of  Death,    . 

Talleyrand, 

The  Sunday  School,  . 
The  Sacraments,     .... 
Verses  for  a  Church  Publication, 
The  Israelite's  Prayer,    . 


11 


For  Mobile,         .... 

.     270 

The  Furniture,        .... 

272 

Christian  Wars, 

.     273 

The  Intercession,    .... 

275 

The  Grave  of  Payson, 

.    276 

The  Lost, 

278 

The  Angel's  Wing,     . 

.    280 

Departing, 

282 

Wisdom  from  All, 

.    283 

The  Early  Dead,     .... 

285 

What  is  Man  ?     . 

.     287 

Walking  on  the  Sea, 

288 

Sacred  Melody,  .... 

.     289 

Return  of  the  Jews, 

291 

Missions,    ..... 

.     297 

POEMS 


THE    GOOD    WINE. 

Oh !  thou  only  God  of  wine, 
Comfort  this  poor  heart  of  mine, 
With  that  nectar  of  thy  blood. 

Alexander  Rosse,  1650. 

Wixe  of  Cyprus,  not  for  me, 
Thou,  nor  juice  of  Italy  ; 
Nor  Atlantic's  luscious  pride, 
From  Madeira's  sunny  side  ; 
Nor  from  Caprea*s  royal  hoard, 
Nor  from  Lisbon's  modern  board, 
Nor  from  elder  Egypt's  crypt, 
Which  Mark  Antony  hath  stripped  — 
Nor  from  Rhine  or  laughing  France, 
Where  Garonne's  blue  ripples  dance, 
Nor  from  banks  of  classic  river, 
Winding  Po  or  Guadalquiver. 

All  the  grapes  in  vintage  crushed, 
Could  not  satisfy  my  thirst ; 
Purple  flood  in  chrysolite, 
Where  it  moves  itself  aright, 


14 


Freely  poured  in  princely  hall, 
Sparkling  at  high  festival, 
Well  refined,  or  on  the  lees, 
Could  not  my  ambition  please  ; 
Draught  that  passing  pleasure  brings, 
Leaving  ever  during  stings. 

When  my  lips  the  beaker  kiss, 
I  have  other  wine  than  this, 
Taken  from  the  fruitful  hill, 
Which  doth  live  in  poesy  still ; 
Where  for  vine,  a  cross  of  wood, 
Guarded  by  the  Roman,  stood  ; 
Whose  rich  spoil  was  gathered  when 
Triumphed  hell  and  triumphed  men  : 
Crushed  and  mangled  was  whose  grape, 
While  the  heavens  looked  agape, 
And  in  sackcloth  hid  —  whose  wine 
Streaming,  dimmed  the  mid-day's  shine, 
Fermented  in  nature's  sigh, 
Ripened  in  the  earthquake's  cry. 

How  it  stirs  my  languid  blood ! 
How  it  cheers  my  soul,  like  food  ! 
Drink,  ye  kings  !  and  cares  forget, 
Drink,  ye  sad  !  and  triumph  yet. 
Drink,  ye  aged  !  strength  renew, 
Drink,  ye  children  !   'tis  for  you. 
Drink,  ye  pilgrims  !  while  'tis  nigh  — 
Drink,  nor  in  the  desert  die. 
Drink,  ye  fainting  !  thirst  ye  never, 
Drink,  ye  dying  !  live  for  ever. 


15 


W  O  M  A  N . 


By  Woman's  words  to  man  so  well  seducing", 
Came  sin's  accursed  entrance  and  our  wo ; 

She,  the  unhallowed  science  introducing, 
Of  good,  forbidden,  taught  us  ill  to  know. 

By  Woman's  lips  were  first  the  accents  spoken 
To  cheer  a  world  whose  hope  was  in  the  grave ; 

That  Jesus  had  the  three-days  slumber  broken, 
And,  rising,  showed  that  He  was  strong  to  save. 

She,  from  free  Eden  to  the  earth's  dark  prison, 
Led  Adam  by  the  flattery  of  her  tongue ;   t 

She  unto  Peter  told,  "  the  Lord  is  risen  !  " 
In  melody  like  that  to  sweet  harps  strung. 

By  Woman,  then,  though  sometimes  corneth  sorrow, 
(And  who  of  mortals  is  exempt  from  this  ?) 

By  Woman's  love,  besides  the  hope  of  morrow, 
There's  full  fruition  of  the  present  bliss. 

She,  in  life's  sunshine,  will  increase  life's  pleasure 
By  social  converse,  and  the  charms  of  mind; 

She,  in  affliction,  will  be  found  a  treasure, 
To  soothe  the  heart  and  banish  care,  unkind. 

She,  in  youth's  journey,  from  the  wayside  flower 
Will  pluck  the  thorn,  lest  it  should  give  thee  pain ; 

In  age  still  constant,  and  in  death's  last  hour 
A  helper  when  all  other  help  is  vain. 


16 


Go,  then,  ye  heartless !  to  whom  Woman  never 
Brings  up  pure  images  of  peace  and  home, 

And  fireside  joys,  and  faithful  care,  whenever 
Pale  Sickness  seizes,  or  afflictions  come  ; 

Go  to  that  selfish  love  the  cold  world  offers, 
And  find  your  solace,  if  indeed  ye  can ; 

For  me,  I'll  ever  seek,  despising  scoffers, 

Her  virtuous  smile  —  God's  richest  boon  to  man 


THE    CHOIR. 

I  went  to  Chapel  some  few  Sundays  since 

In  Chatham  street,  New  York ;  a  stranger  there, 

And  yet  at  home  within  those  hallowed  walls 

Where  all  are  welcome.     It  was  early  yet, 

So  I  awhile  surveyed  the  edifice, 

Admiring  at  the  growth  of  piety, 

Or  growth  of  that  fair  city,  which  had  changed 

Its  Theatres  to  temples.     Soon  the  seats, 

Spacious,  and  free  to  poor  and  rich  alike, 

Were  filled.     The  holy  man  of  God  his  place 

Ascended ;  silence  reigned  and  hearts  seemed  hushed 

At  consciousness  that  Jesus  was  within; 

When  presently  the  Choir,  whose  ample  place, 

Unwonted,  was  behind  the  sacred  desk, 

And  in  full  view  of  worshippers,  began : 

He  dies .'  the  Friend  of  Sinners  dies .' 


17 


In  low 
And  sweetly  plaintive  notes,  in  which  I  thought 
The  very  soul  of  harmony  spake  out, 
Did  many  voices,  well  attuned,  reply 
Subduingly —  Here's  love  beyond  degree! 
So  rich,  so  melancholy,  and  so  soft  ■ 
The  strains  that  rose  and  fell  upon  the  ear,  — 
So  fitly  modulation  of  the  tones 
Was  married  to  the  language,  blending  sense 
With  melody,  and  to  the  heart  and  head 
Conveying  truly,  sweetly,  mournfully, 
The  import,  —  that  my  soul  was  satisfied, 
And  yet  was  troubled.     Could  I  help  but  go 
With  the  sad  story  ?  —  could  I  help  but  hear 
The  voice  of  Salem's  daughters,  as  they  wept  ? — 
Or  could  I  then  resist  the  plaintive  call : 
"  Come,  saints,  and  drop  a  tear  or  two  for  Him 
Who  groaned  beneath  your  load  !  " — Could  I  refrain 
From  joyful  tears,  as  the  triumphant  burst 
Gave  token  that  the  God  had  left  the  tomb, 
And  risen,  Conqueror  and  King  ?  — 

I  gazed 
Upon  the  leader  of  this  wondrous  power 
Of  minstrelsy  concentrate,  as  he  sat 
Midst  of  the  choir,  upon  the  farthest  seat, 
And  highest  —  the  spirit  he  of  music 
Personified.     His  frame,  obedient  to 
The  stirring  impulse  of  the  mellow  sounds, 
Involuntarily  bent,  now  at  the  close, 
Symphonious,  and  now  to  full  extent 
2 


13 


Expanded,  as  pealed  up  the  harmony, 
While  every  nerve  and  every  fibre  seemed 
Compelled  to  the  sweet  service.     He,  I  saw  — 
Blest  necromancer  —  had  infused  his  soul 
Into  the  soul  of  each,  and  each  as  one, 
Gave  voice,  —  one  master  spirit  moving  all. 

It  speeds  devotion,  when  intelligence 
And  skill,  and  piety,  in  concord  join, 
Producing  music.     Softened  by  its  power, 
The  heart  flows  forth,  and  meekly  entertains 
The  gospel  message.     Let  not  tuneless  choirs, 
Where  life  is  not,  nor  melody,  nor  taste, 
Essay  the  lofty  praises  of  the  King:  — 
For  to  his  shrines  should  such  false  fire  be  brought, 
'Twould  mar  the  sacrifice.     How  heavily, 
How  wearily  would  grieved  Devotion's  wing 
Soar  then  !     New  unction  must  the  soul  require, 
If  thus  disturbed,  to  worship  God  aright. 


BETTER    THOUGHTS. 

"A  weary  world,"  forever  cry 

The  stricken,  troubled,  and  the  sad ; 
And  openly,  alike  the  bad, 
Alike  the  good,  in  secret  sigh ; 

And  "  weary,  weary  world,"  is  still 
The  burden  in  their  song  of  ill. 


19 


Aforetime,  I  have  strung  some  lays 

In  idleness,  to  theme  like  this  ; 

And  shut  my  wilful  eyes  on  bliss, 
That  round  me  lay  in  noontide  blaze  ; 

And  chose  the  darkness  which,  in  stour, 

Fancy  beheld  around  me  lower. 

Well  pleased  me  then  to  say  or  sing, 
"  This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show  ;" 
And  all  its  joys,  as  well  as  wo, 

Are  sombre  as  the  raven's  wing, 
And  flat  as  dreams  of  folly  past, 
That  charm  awhile,  and  cheat  at  last. 

I've  wiser  grown  ;  and  this  fair  world 

Seems  fraught  with  something  of  the  grace, 
Which  God  inscribed  upon  its  face, 

When  he  the  lovely  planet  hurled 
Away,  —  as  Time  began  his  years, — 
To  join  the  dances  of  the  spheres. 

My  heart  leaps  up,"  when  I  am  fanned 
By  morning's  fragrance-laden  air  ; 
How  blessed  is  the  night !  how  fair 

The  landscape  where  I  spy  His  hand  ! 
The  hill  and  vale  have  charms  for  me  : 
The  river,  and  the  broad  blue  sea. 

Yes  !  and  its  fields,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
Its  sun,  and  stars,  and  glorious  frame, 
Now  tell  me  of  the  Maker's  name. 


20 


I  read  it  in  the  flying  hours, 
I  feel  it  in  the  summer's  glow, 
:Tis  spangled  on  the  winter's  snow. 

His  love  I  welcome  in  the  joy 

Of  friendship,  and  I  need  not  roam 
For  sweeter  proof;  my  humble  home, 

Where  pleasures  dwell  that  never  cloy, 
Where  peace  has  dove-like  wing  unfurled, 
Tells  me  'tis  not  a  "  weary"  world. 

Sin  makes  it  weary ;"  true,  yet  here 
Thy  argument  doth  blindly  halt; 
'Tis  not  the  world,  but  man's  in  fault; 

And  were  to  such  the  heavens  brought  near, 
And  could  sin  there  one  moment  dwell, 
Heaven  would  be  but  a  "weary"  hell. 

And  spirit !  can  that  weary  be, 

Disgusting,  vexing,  on  whose  front 
(Too  deeply  writ  for  ruin's  brunt, 

Or  change,)  stands  thy  eternity  ? 

This,  on  which  spleen  in  judgment  sat, 
Thy  one  probation-place  for  that ! 

God  never  wrought  with  ill  intent, 
Nor  vainly  ;  and  this  glorious  world, 
O'er  which  his  starry  skies  are  curled, 

O'er  which  his  bow  of  love  is  bent  — 
Scene  of  his  Son's  accomplished  plan  — 
Is  not  a  "  weary"  world  for  man. 


21 


I'll  love  it,  and  with  holy  love  ; 
For  its  high  mysteries  will  employ 
Thought,  language,  love,  in  worlds  of  joy 

There  —  and  such  be  my  bliss  above  !  — 
Earth  has  sweet  portion  in  the  soul, 
And  shall,  as  countless  ages  roll. 


CHARITY. 

"  Go,  heal  the  sick,  go,  raise  the  dead," 
The  Saviour  to  the  Seventy  said  ;  — 
They  straightway  spread  abroad  the  flame 
Of  sacred  Mercy,  in  his  name. 

Lord,  we  are  not  commissioned  thus  ; 

To  quell  disease  is  not  for  us ; 

We  cannot  bid  insensate  dust 

To  rise,  and  tomb  and  cerement  burst. 

But  we  can  cheer  the  dwelling,  where 
Is  found  the  son  of  want  and  care ; 
And  smooth  the  couch  on  which  at  last 
The  daughter  of  despair  is  cast. 

And  we  may  hush  the  orphan's  fear, 
And  wipe  away  the  widow's  tear  : 
Win  back  the  wand'ring  and  undone, 
And  clothe  and  feed  the  needy  one. 


22 


Thus  seeking  such  as  thou  didst  know, 
Who  wast  companion,  too,  of  wo  ; 
Thus  following  paths  thyself  didst  tread, 
Who  often  raised  the  drooping  head  ; 

Humbled,  if,  when  the  blessed  stand 
In  judgment  at  thy  high  right  hand, 
We  hear  thee  say,  "  Whatever  ye 
Have  done  to  these,  ye  did  to  Me." 


THE    FARM    SCHOOL, 

on  Thompson's  island,  boston  harboi 

'Tis  well  to  gather  from  your  street 

The  children  of  neglect, 
And  teach  them,  in  this  fair  retreat, 

To  win  deserved  respect ; 
And  train  the  twig,  so  early  bent 

To  vice,  by  culture  kind  ; 
And  look  for  fruit  of  your  intent  — 

The  tree  aright  inclined. 

Tis  well  to  snatch  from  Penury's  den 

Its  hapless  child,  and  show 
Humanity  is  godlike,  when 
It  softens  human  wo. 


23 


'Tis  well  —  for  ye  of  Misery's  tomb 

Have  burst  the  iron  bars, 
And  called  up  slumbering  mind,  to  bloom 

Above  the  fading  stars  ! 

I  marked  each  youthful  eye,  and  saw 

High  purpose  kindle  there ; 
I  saw  the  future  statesman,  or 

One  who  shall  venture  where 
The  wise,  in  elder  years  have  stood ; 

Or  him,  whose  honors  won 
Shall  throne  his  name  among  the  good, 

His  country's  choicest  son. 

Or,  moulded  here  in  honest  ways, 

And  led  in  ductile  youth  — 
One  who  shall  fearless  go  in  praise 

And  battle  for  the  truth ; 
Or  go  to  prove  how  surely  peace 

Lies  fallow  on  the  soil, 
When  skill  and  care  insure  increase 

To  crown  the  yeoman's  toil. 

I  read  each  look  of  intellect, 

And  Heaven  I  thanked  again, 
That  from  lost  hopes  and  households  wrecked, 

Such  treasures  yet  remain  ; 
And  prayed  that  those  who,  still  in  tears, 

Tread  paths  of  want  and  sin, 
The  thousands  of  unripened  years  — 

Might  here  be  garnered  in. 


24 


THE    CHILD    OF   THE    TOMB; 

A    STORY    OF    NEWEVRYPORT. 

The  following  fact  is  found  in  Knapp's  "  Life  of  Lord  Dexter." 

Where  Whitefield  sleeps,  remembered,  in  the  dust, 

The  lowly  vault  held  once  a  double  trust ; 

And  Parsons,  reverend  name,  that  quiet  tomb 

Possessed  —  to  wait  the  day  of  weal  and  doom. 

Another  servant  of  the  living  God, 

Prince,  who  (bereft  of  sight)  his  way  had  trod, 

Unerringly  and  safe,  life's  journey  through  — 

Now  sought  admittance  to  these  slumberers  too. 

As  earth  receded,  and  the  mansions  blest 

Rose  on  his^vision  —  "  Let  my  body  rest 

With  Whitefield's,"  —  said  he,  yielding  up  his  breath, 

In  life  beloved,  and  not  disjoined  in  death. 

Obedient  to  his  wish,  in  order  then 

Were  all  things  done  ;  the  tomb  was  oped  to  ken 

Of  curious  eyes  —  made  ready  to  enclose 

Another  tenant  in  its  bushed  repose  : 

And,  lighted  with  a  single  lamp,  whose  ray 

Fell  dimly  down  upon  the  mouldering  clay, 

Was  left,  prepared,  to  silence  as  of  night, 

Till  hour  appointed  for  the  funeral  rite. 

It  chanced,  the  plodding  teacher  of  a  school  — 
A  man  of  whim,  bold,  reckless,  yet  no  fool  — 
Deemed  this  an  opportunity  to  test 


25 


How  far  the  fears  of  spirits  might  infest 
The  bosom  of  a  child.     A  likely  boy, 
The  choicest  of  his  flock,  a  mother's  joy, 
He  took,  unscrupulous  of  means,  if  he 
His  ends  might  gain,  and  solve  the  mystery. 

Both  stood  within  the  mansion  of  the  dead, 
And  while  the  stripling  mused,  the  teacher  fled, 
Leaving  the  child,  where  the  dull  cresset  shone 
With  the  dumb  relics  and  his  God  alone. 
As  the  trap-door  fell  suddenly,  the  stroke, 
Sullen  and  harsh,  his  solemn  revery  broke. 
Where  is  he  ?  —  Barred  within  the  dreadful  womb 
Of  the  cold  earth  —  the  living  in  the  tomb  ! 
The  opened  coffins  showed  Death's  doings,  sad  — 
The  awful  dust  in  damps  and  grave-mould  clad. 
Though  near  the  haunt  of  busy,  cheerful  day, 
He,  to  drear  night  and  solitude  the  prey  ! 
Must  he  be  watcher  with  these  corpses  !  —  Who 
Can  tell  what  sights  may  rise  ?  Will  reason  then  be  true: 
Must  he,  —  a  blooming,  laughter-loving  child, — 
Be  mated  thus  ?  —  The  thought  was  cruel,  wild  ! 
His  knees  together  smote,  as  first,  in  fear, 
He  gazed  around  his  prison  ;  —  then  a  tear 
Sprang  to  his  eyes  in  kind  relief;  and  said 
The  little  boy,  "  /  will  not  be  afraid. 
Was  ever  spirit  of  the  good  man  known 
To  injure  children  whom  it  found,  alone  ?  " 
And  straight  he  taxed  his  memory,  to  supply 
Stories  and  texts,  to  show  he  might  rely 
Most  safely,  humbly,  on  his  Father's  care  — 


26 


Who  hears  a  child's  as  well  as  prelate's  prayer. 
And  thus  he  stood  —  on  Whitefield's  form  his  glance 
In  reverence  fixed  —  and  hoped  deliverance. 

Meanwhile,  the  recreant  teacher,  —  where  was  he  ? 
Gone  in  effrontery  to  take  his  tea 
With  the  lad's  mother  !  —  Supper  done,  he  told 
The  feat  that  should  display  her  son  as  bold. 
With  eye  indignant,  and  with  words  of  flame, 
How  showers  that  mother  scorn,  rebuke,  and  shame  ! 
And  bids  him  haste  !  and  hastes  herself,  to  bring 
Him  from  Death's  realm  who  knew  not  yet  its  sting  : 
And  yet  believed  —  so  well  her  son  she  knew  — 
The  noble  boy  would  to  himself  be  true  : 
He  would  sustain  himself,  and  she  should  find 
Him  patient  and  possessed,  she  trusted  well  his  mind. 

The  boy  yet  lives  —  and  from  that  distant  hour 
Dates  much  of  truth  that  on  his  heart  hath  power  ;  — 
And  chiefly  this  —  whate'er  of  wit  is  wed 
To  word  of  his  —  to  reverence  the  dead. 


•     SATURDAY    EVENING. 

My  God  !  this  hour  doth  thought  invite, 
That  bird-like  would  for  shelter  flee, 

Tired  with  its  six-days'  weary  flight  — 
To  fold  its  wings,  and  rest  with  Thee. 


27 


I  long  to  soar  above  the  vain 

And  false  delights  that  compass  me  ! 

Break,  Lord,  the  world's  entangling  chain, 
And  set  the  joyful  captive  free. 

'Tis  said  the  time  ere  that  which  brings 

The  early  blush  of  Sabbath  light, 
Is  never  vexed  by  evil  things, 

Is  ne'er  disturbed  by  fiends  of  night; 
So  like  that  hour,  I  fain  would  choose 

My  soul  to  be  —  its  calm  delight 
So  deep  —  that  Folly  must  refuse 

To  stay,  and  Sin  be  loath  to  fright. 

Sweet  Evening  !  whose  delightful  air 

Already  scents  of  Sabbath  gales  ; 
Refresh  me  !  cheer  me  !  and  repair 

The  vigor  that  so  often  fails ; 
And  fit  me  for  the  morrow's  toil 

In  gardens  where  the  soul  inhales 
Rich  fragrance,  gathering  flowery  spoil 

On  rosy  hills,  in  lilied  vales. 

If  such  the  prospects  that  may  pass 

Before  a  pilgrim  here  below, 
Who  gazes  through  the  shepherd's  glass, 

The  far  celestial  scenes  to  know  — 
How  glorious,  waking  from  the  dream 

Of  life's  delusions,  care  and  wo, 
Must  that  high  world  of  beauty  seem 

Whose  earthly  glimpses  ravish  so  ! 


28 


THE    SABBATH. 

The  day  that  God  calls  his,  make  not  thins  own 
By  sports,  or  play,  though  'tis  a  custom  grown  ; 
God's  day  of  mercy  whoso  doth  profane, 
God's  day  of  judgment  doth  for  him  remain. 

MS.  Poetry  of  the  Seventeenth  Cent  urn. 

Joy  for  the  Sabbath  day  ! 

Day  of  all  days  the  best,  — 
Toil !  with  thy  thousand  cares,  away  ! 

I  seek  its  hallowed  rest. 
When  virgin  Earth  was  young, 

The  word  that  blest  it  came  ; 
With  trumpet's  voice  the  mandate  rung 

From  Sinai's  hill  of  flame. 

Joy  for  the  Sabbath  hours  ! 

My  soul,  think  on  thy  vow ; 
Lie  trembling,  ye  tumultuous  powers  ! 


Tread  softly,  worldlings, 


now 


This  Resurrection  Morn 

Broke  ancient  Midnight's  spell, 
When  One  of  lowly  woman  born, 

Spoiled  Death  and  eager  Hell. 

Up,  for  retirement's  haunt ! 

The  solemn,  secret  place, 
Where  God  supplies  the  spirit's  want 

With  treasures  of  his  grace. 


29 


Its  hushed  and  early  hour 

Invites  prevailing  men ; 
TJie  Sabbath  day-break!  —  Oh,  there's  power 

With  Him  to  wrestle  then. 

Up  !  where  Devotion  waits, 

Where  the  bowed  heart  adores  ; 
Be  lifted,  oh,  ye  temple  gates  ! 

Be  opened,  joyful  doors  ! 
There,  at  the  organ's  peal, 

And  choir's  melodious  tone 
Of  rising  anthem,  humbly  kneel 

Before  thy  Father's  throne. 

Up  !  for  the  paschal  feast  — 

The  bread  and  wine  are  here  ; 
Thou,  whom  thy  heart  esteems  as  least, 

Art  welcome  to  the  cheer. 
The  spousals  of  the  King 

And  Church  are  held  to-day  ; 
Thy  willing  gift  of  gladness  bring, 

And  bring  thy  white  array. 

Weep  !  for  there  is  a  loss  — 

The  enemy  has  gained  ; 
Weep,  follower,  beneath  the  cross, 

The  Sabbath  is  profaned ! 
Oh,  not  alone  by  those:  — 

Yet  darker  is  the  frown  : 
The  Christian  joins  the  Sabbath  foes, 

Bv  him  'tis  trodden  down  ! 


30 


NIAGARA. 

Niagara  !  —  the  poetry  of  God  ! 
Whose  numbers  tell,  in  everlasting  hymn, 
Only  of  God  !     The  morning  stars  that  woke 
Music  along  their  courses,  early  caught 
Its  far  off  echoes,  and  in  wild  delight 
Returned  them,  softened,  round  the  universe. 
Think  not,  think  not,  Earth's  triflers  !  that  for  you 
And  garish  Day,  these  melodies  chime  on. 
When  ye,  diminished,  lost,  are  known  not,  Night, 
Night  to  the  awful  anthem  ever  hearkens, 
And  ever  with  new  joy.     Oh,  how  sublime 
The  symphony,  that,  under  the  expanse 
Of  stars,  peals  on  in  unexhausted  power: 
Niagara! — and  the  sole  listener,  Night! 


SHIP  OF  THE  LINE  PENNSYLVANIA 

"  Leap  forth  to  the  careering  seas," 

Oh,  ship  of  lofty  name  ! 
And  toss  upon  thy  native  breeze 

The  stars  and  stripes  of  fame  ! 
And  bear  thy  thunders  o'er  the  deep 

Where  vaunting  navies  ride  !  — 
Thou  hast  a  nation's  gems  to  keep  — 

Her  honor  and  her  pride  ! 


31 


Oh !  holy  is  the  covenant  made 

With  thee  and  us  to-day  ; . — 
None  from  the  compact  shrinks  afraid, 

No  traitor  utters  nay  ! 
We  pledge  our  fervent  love,  and  thou 

Thy  glorious  ribs  of  oak, 
Alive  with  men  who  cannot  bow 

To  kings,  nor  kiss  the  yoke  ! 

Speed  lightnings  o'er  the  Carib  Sea, 

Which  deeds  of  hell  deform ; 
And  look  !  her  hands  are  spread  to  thee 

Where  Afric's  robbers  swarm. 
Go  !  lie  upon  tbe  vEgean's  breast, 

Where  sparkle  emerald  isles  — 
Go  !  seek  the  lawless  Suliote's  nest, 

And  spoil  his  cruel  wiles. 
And  keep,  where  sail  the  merchant  ships, 

Stern  watch  on  their  highway, 
And  promptly,  through  thine  iron  lips, 

When  urged,  our  tribute  pay ; 
Yea,  show  thy  bristling  teeth  of  power, 

Wherever  tyrants  bind, 
In  pride  of  their  own  little  hour, 

A  freeborn  noble  mind. 

Spread  out  those  ample  wings  of  thine  !  — 
While  crime  doth  govern  men, 

'Tis  fit  such  bulwark  of  the  brine 
Should  leave  the  shores  of  Penn  ; 


32 


For  hid  within  thy  giant  strength 

Are  germs  of  welcome  Peace, 
And  such  as  thou,  shalt  cause  at  length 

Man's  feverish  strifes  to  cease. 
From  every  vale,  from  every  crag, 

Word  of  thy  beauty's  past, 
And  joy  we  that  our  country's  flag 

Streams  from  thy  towering  mast  — 
Assured  that  in  thy  prowess,  thou 

For  her  wilt  win  renown, 
Whose  sons  can  die,  but  know  not  how 

To  strike  that  pennon  down. 


1837. 


SUCH   MAY   NOT   I. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit !  comfort  me. 

Litany,  by  Robert  llerrick. 

Who  of  our  mortal  race  is  he, 

So  firmly  fixed  by  fortune's  power, 
That  from  the  shock  he's  counted  free, 

Of  tossing  waves,  in  trouble's  hour? 
Let  him  still  clasp  his  fancied  bliss, 

And  look  defiance,  too,  on  care, 
Not  heeding,  in  a  world  like  this, 

If  there's  abetter  known,  or  where  :  — 

Such  may  not  I. 


33 


Who  of  the  saints  that  ever  trod 

In  outward  sheen,  this  path  of  sin, 
That  never  felt  —  so  strong  in  God  — 

The  coward  weakness  full  within  ? 
Let  him  still  gaze  on  yon  clear  sky, 

As  if  his  mirror  there  he  sought ; 
And  challenge  Purity  to  spy 

In  his  soul's  core,  one  careless  thought  — 

Such  dare  not  I. 

Yet,  if  there's  one,  who  in  the  strength 

Of  worldliness,  is  weak  indeed, 
Who  finds  his  boasted  staff,  at  length, 

Of  wise  resolves,  a  broken  reed, 
And  from  the  midst  of  battle  calls  — 

While  his  own  goodness  sounds  retreat  — 
On  Mercy,  and  for  succor  falls, 

A  trembling  wretch,  at  Jesas'  feet  — 

Oh  !  such  am  I. 


THE   UNFRUITFUL. 

Why  on  this  Zion-hill 

Descends  no  kindly  rain  — 

Precept  on  precept  still 
Imparted,  and  in  vain  ? 

No  souls  these  walls  to  crowd, 

Like  doves,  or  as  a  cloud  ? 
3 


34 


Its  watchman  long  hath  toiled 

In  Christ,  his  Master's  name  ; 
Yet  Error  is  not  foiled, 
Nor  Satan  put  to  shame. 
For  weary  years  the  stumbling  flock 
Have  blindly  missed  salvation's  Rock. 

With  tears  and  inward  strife 

And  agony  of  soul, 
He's  wooed  the  dead  to  life, 

The  broken  to  be  whole. 
But  tears  and  prayers  and  pain 
Of  spirit,  have  been  vain. 

What  lacks  he  ?  love  ?  —  His  heart 
Beats  but  to  earnest  love  ; 

Power  ?  —  Pie  hath  the  art 
To  bring  heaven  from  above. 
No  wiser  lips  God's  word  hath  spoken, 
No  holier  hands  God's  bread  hath  broken. 

Listen  !  —  ere  vows  had  bound 

His  labors  to  this  spot, 
A  message  had  him  found 

Which  he  regarded  not : 
By  him  should  be  unfurled 
Peace  to  the  heathen  world  ! 

He  shunned  it.     On  this  hill 
No  dews  of  grace  descend  ; 

'Tis  as  Gilboa  still, 

And  shall  be  till  his  end, 
Who  judgment  for  the  Jonah  sees, 
That  to  God's  will  preferred  his  ease. 


85 


FAITHFUL  TO   HIS    CONSTITUENTS. 

He  journeyed  on,  and  baited  at  each  house, 

Where  they  do  hang  out  sign  to  entertain 

Both  "  man  and  beast.'''     And  he  was  entertained 

With  certain  glasses  of  burnt  brandy,  or 

Of  Hollands,  or  the  best  New  England  rum, 

As  suited  taste  ;  nor  boggled  he,  nor  seemed 

Squeamish,  or  hard  to  be  well  satisfied. 

And  thus  did  he,  or  if  the  weather  showed 

Or  cold  or  moderate,  or  rain  or  shine, — 

'Twas  all  the  same  —  his  quenchless  thirst  held  good  ; 

And  by  the  time  we  reached  the  bustling  town, — 

Where  is  the  seat  of  government,  to  which 

The  gathered  wisdom  of  the  State  convenes, 

Yearly,  to  make  or  mend  the  laws  —  I  found 

My  friend,  the  Representative,  was  drunk  ! 

I  marvelled  somewhat  at  this  riddle,  till, 
Waiting  a  sober  hour,  I  questioned  him, 
And  he  did  thus  reply,  all  unabashed  : 
11  My  good  constituents  hate  the  new  plans  — 
And  vile  plans  are  they  !  — 'bout  the  Temperance  cause. 
And  they  elected  me,  for  well  they  knew 
I  should  oppose  such  notions,  and  thwart 
Endeavors  to  put  down  all  licenses, — 
Which  curst  endeavors  are  against  His  will 
Who  made  all  things,  and  who  has  said  that  all 


The  creatures  —  surely  the  "  good  creature  "  too  — 
Are  very  good.     Faithful  those  friends  to  me, 
And  I  must  drink,  —  I  love  it  —  for  I  deem 
A  man  unfit  to  sit  in  yon  brave  State  House, 
And  represent  such  friends,  —  who  stayed  at  none 
Expedient,  or  good  or  bad,  to  place  him  there  — 
Who  will  not,  on  occasion,  every  where 
Be  faithful  to  his  tried  constituents  !  " 


THE  OLD  NORTH  BURIAL  GROUND 
IN  PORTSMOUTH,  N.  H. 

I  stand  where  I  have  stood  before  in  boyhood's  sunny 

prime, 
The  same — yet  not  the  same,  but  one  who  wears  the 

touch  of  Time ; 
And  gaze  around  on  what  was  then  familiar  to  the  eye, 
But  whose  inconstant  features  tell   that  years  have 

journeyed  by, 

Since  o'er  this  venerable  ground  a  truant  child  I  played, 
And  chased  the  bee  and  plucked  the  flower,  where 

ancient  dust  is  laid  ; 
And  hearkened,  in  my  wondering  mood,  when  tolled 

the  passing  bell, 
And  started  at  the  coffin's  cry,  as  clods  upon  it  fell. 


37 


These  mossy  tombs  I  recollect,  the  same  o'er  which 

I  pored, 
The  same  these  rhymes  and   texts,  with  which  my 

memory  was  stored  ; 
These  humble  tokens,  too,  that  lean,  and  tell  where 

resting  bones 
Are  hidden,  though  their  date  and  name  have  perished 

from  the  stones. 

How  rich  these  precincts  with  the  spoils  of  ages 
buried  here  ! 

What  hearts  have  ached,  what  eyes  have  given  this 
conscious  earth  the  tear  — 

How  many  friends,  whose  welcome  cheered  their  now 
deserted  doors, 

Have,  since  my  last  sojourning,  swelled  these  melan- 
choly stores  ! 

Yon  spot,  where  in  the  sunset  ray  a  single  white  stone 

gleams, 
I've  visited,  I  cannot  tell  how  often,  in  my  dreams, — 
That  spot  o'er  which  I  wept,  though  then  too  young 

my  loss  to  know, 
As  I  beheld  my  father's  form  sepulchred  far  below. 

How  freshly  every  circumstance,  though  seas  swept 

wide  between, 
And  years  had  vanished  since  that  hour,  in  vagaries 

I've  seen  ! 
The  lifted  lid  —  that  countenance  —  the  funeral  array, 
As  vividly  as  if  the  scene  were  but  of  yesterday. 


38 


How   pleasant  seem   the  moments  now,  as  up  their 

shadows  come, 
Spent  in  that  domicil  which  wore  the  sacred  name  of 

home, — 
How  in  the  vista  years  have  made,  they  shine  with 

mellowed  light, 
To  which  meridian  bliss  has  nought  so  beautiful  and 

bright ! 

How  happy  were  those  fireside  hours  —  how   happy 

summer's  walk, 
When  listening  to  my  father's  words  or  joining  in  the 

talk; 
How  passed  like  dreams  those  early  hours,  till  down 

upon  us  burst 
The  avalanche  of  grief,  and  laid  our  pleasures  in  the 

dust  ! 

They  tell  of  loss,  but  who  can  tell  how  thorough  is 

the  stroke 
By  which  the  tie  of  sire  and  son  in  death's  forever 

broke  ? 
They  tell  of  Time  !  —  though  he  may  heal  the  heart 

that's  wounded  sore, 
The  household  bliss  thus  blighted,  Time  !  canst  thou 

again  restore  ? 

Yet  if  this  spot  recals  the  dead,  and  brings  from  mem- 
ory's leaf 

A  sentence  wrote  in  bitterness,  of  raptures,  bright  and 
brief, 


I  would  not  shun  it,  nor  would  lose  the  moral  it  will 

give, 
To  teach  me  by  the  withered  past,  for  better  hopes  to 

live. 


And  though  to  warn  of  future  wo,  or  whisper  future 

bliss, 
One  comes  not  from  the  spirit  world,  a  witness  unto 

this, 
Yet  from  memorials  of  his  dust,  'tis  wholesome  thus 

to  learn 
And  print  upon  our  thought  the  state  to  which  we 

must  return. 

Wherever  then  my  pilgrimage  in  coming  days  shall  be, 
My  frequent  visions,  favorite  ground  !  shall  backward 

glance  to  thee  ; 
The  holy  dead,  the  bygone  hours,  the  precepts  early 

given, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe  and  influence  my  homeward  way 

to  heaven.  1837. 


PURITY. 

Oh,  glorious  Thou  !  thy  throne  of  power 
Could  not  remain  one  single  hour, 
Were  not  its  deep  foundations  laid 
On  laws  of  holiness,  obeyed. 


40 


The  heavens  that  look  upon  this  globe, 
The  stars  that  glitter  on  their  robe, 
Yea,  the  battalions,  blest  and  bright 
Of  God,  are  spotted  in  his  sight. 

What,  then,  is  man,  who  drinks  up  sin  ? 
All  stains  without,  all  wounds  within -— 
Whose  guilt  embitters  every  stream 
That,  as  it  shines,  should  blessings  beam. 

Oh,  from  the  tree  which  shadows  heaven, 
Let  some  benignant  branch  be  given  ;  — 
At  Marah,  be  again  revealed, 
And,  Lord  !  the  fountain  shall  be  healed. 


THE   FUTURE. 

My  God,  I  would  not  long  to  see 

My  fate  with  curious  eyes  ; 
What  gloomy  lines  are  writ  for  me, 

Or  what  bright  scenes  may  rise. —  Watts. 

If  in  Thy  book,  within  whose  lids  is  sealed 
The  checkered  fates  of  mortals,  unrevealed, 
Is  deeply  graven  by  the  eternal  pen, 
Among  the  unaltered  weal  and  wo  of  men, 
My  future  story,  —  or  in  sombre  lines, 
Along  which  no  kind  ray  of  gladness  shines, 


41 


Or  in  the  characters  that  brightly  tell 

Around  me  Hope  has  woven  fairy  spell, 

And  on  my  future  path  —  unlike  the  past  — 

The  sunshine  of  enjoyment  shall  be  cast  — 

And  on  that  page  I  dare  believe  'tis  seen  — 

Still  shall  the  thought  ne'er  trouble  me.     Serene, 

Indifferent,  even,  will  I  be,  for  Thou, 

O  God,  hast  been,  and  still,  I  trust,  art  now 

And  ever  will  be  mine.     What  need  I  more  ? 

To  me  what  boots  it  that  the  future  store 

Of  good,  or  ill,  is  unrevealed  ?     I  must, 

Were  all  this  known,  but  make  my  God  my  trust. 

And  this  I'll  do,  unknowing  His  intent, 

And  praise  Him  still,  till  life's  poor  sand  is  spent, - 

Till  I,  with  others,  on  the  plains  above, 

Shall,  wondering,  spell  out  all  His  ways  of  love  ; 

And  oh,  to  read  in  lines  of  glory,  then, 

How  God,  in  all,  is  justified  to  men  ! 


BETHESDA.* 

The  House  of  Mercy  —  sacred  pool  — 
Whose  gracious  wave  was  wont  to  cure, 

Beneath  the  Great  Physician's  rule, 

The  lame,  blind,  halt,  and  withered  poor, 

*  John, chap.  v. 


42 


Is  theme  of  sweet  instruction,  telling 
That  errand  angels  make  their  dwelling 
With  man  ;  untiring  spirits  they, 

Who,  or  to  bide,  or  fly,  or  roam, 
With  willing  wings  their  Lord  obey 

On  earth,  as  in  their  starry  home. 

Bethesda  !  in  the  lapse  of  years 

Who  may  recount  the  groans  and  tears, 

The  hopes  dashed  down,  the  keen  despair  — 

All  that  the  sickened  heart  can  wear 

Of  human  ill,  that  by  thy  side 

Have  clustered,  mocking  human  pride  ? 

Or  of  the  thousands  who  have  sat 

Thus  by  thy  well,  in  hope,  how  few 
Seizing  the  precious  moment  that 

Should  heal,  stepped  in  and  found  it  true  ! 
And  what's  the  world  we  tread,  but  one 

Bethesda,  where  the  heirs  of  pain 
Are  watchers  —  where  the  lost,  undone, 

Expecting,  wait,  and  wait  in  vain  — 
Where  multitudes  lose  Hope's  sweet  power, 
To  one  that  finds  the  Angel's  hour  ! 

And  one,  among  that  waiting  crowd, 
For  two-score  years  has,  patient,  bowed 

Beneath  his  sufferings.     Time  has  past  — 
His  youthful  locks  of  glossy  jet 
Have  whitened  by  these  waters,  yet 
Is  he  unhealed.     His  manly  cheek 
Is  scarred  with  lines  that  old  age  speak  J 


48 


And  he  has  seen  Bethesda  heal, 
While  on  its  virtues  lay  a  seal 
For  him,  a  wretch  to  misery  sold. 
And  he  has  seen  the  young,  the  old, 
The  timorous,  doubting,  and  the  bold 

Go  down,  while  he  aside  is  cast. 
Yet  not  for  want  of  effort,  he 
Is  left  in  his  infirmity. 
How  often,  when  despair  was  nigh, 
He  checked  the  fiend  !  —  his  eager  eye 
Kindled  once  more  with  hope  : — the  cry 
Went  round,  "  The  Angel  !  "  —  then  he  strove 
By  thought  of  all  that  bound  his  love 
To  life,  to  rise  and  in  the  wave 
Of  healing,  his  disease  to  lave. 
But  e'en  while  coming,  feebly,  slow, 
The  stronger  gained  the  pool  below  ; 
Another  stepped  before  him,  —  hand 

Was  none  to  help,  or  guide  his  foot  — 
Not  one  of  kin,  or  friendship's  band 

The  old  man  in  the  wave  to  put. 

Yes  !  there  was  One  drew  near  him  then, 
Of  rich  compassion,  more  than  men. 
He  comes  —  no  conqueror  so  great  — 
In  lowly,  meek,  derided  state. 
His  followers  base  esteemed,  the  scum 
Of  earth  —  the  heirs  of  crowns  to  come. 
And  who  is  He  !  —  I  know  him  now 
By  that  pale  cheek  and  wondrous  brow  ; 


44 


That  face  with  softest  pity  beaming, 
That  awful  eye  whence  God  is  gleaming. 
"  Wilt  thou  be  healed  ? "  he  kindly  said  ; 

Could  He  raise  wishes,  but  to  balk  ? 
Oh,  no  !  when  Jesus  speaks,  the  dead 
Shall  live,  all  mortal  ills  must  die  ;  — 
At  His  command  diseases  fly, 

The  sick  shall  take  his  bed  and  walk  ! 


AFRICA. 

God  !  while  dusky  Hindostan 

Sees  the  light  that  comes  from  Thee. 
While  no  more  Mahratta's  man 

Gives  to  Boodh  the  knee, — 
While  again  the  Grecian  hears 

On  his  Mars'-hill,  truth,  profound, 
While  the  Crescent  disappears 

From  Calvary's  holy  ground, — 
Yea,  while  Smyrna  far  hath  cast 

Age's  seven-fold  bigot  pall, 
And  for  China  word  hath  past 

That  overleaps  her  wall  — 

God  !  shall  not  the  Negro's  land 

As  other  lands  be  blest  ? 
Shall  not  Ethiopia's  band 

Enter  into  rest  ? 


45 


Shall  Sahara's  parched  ranger 

Never  taste  the  rivulet  ? 
Still  shall  Christendom  the  stranger 

In  the  Moorish  gate  forget  ? 
While  thy  Dove  of  Mystery 

Every  where  is  flying, 
Will  not  leaves  of  healing  be 

Sent  to  Afric,  dying  ? 

Where  Cleopatra  the  pearl 

Mingled,  is  thy  pearl  forbid  ? 
Shall  not  men  the  Cross  unfurl 

On  the  Pyramid  ! 
May  not  upon  night  again 

Open  the  immortal  morn, 
Where  Cyprian  taught,  and  Origen 

Adorned  the  priestly  lawn  ? 
May  not  hamlets  that  festoon, 

Beautifully,  Niger's  flood, 
With  Alexandria  and  Wednoon, 

Be  given  unto  God  ? 

On  the  coast  of  nations,  look  ! 

Where  deceitful  beams  prevail  — 
Shall  they  not,  at  thy  rebuke, 

Pale,  as  stars  at  morning  pale  ? 
Wilt  Thou  not  awake  the  dead  ? 

Captive  lead  captivity  — 
May  not  Ethiopia  spread 

Heart  and  hand  to  Thee  ! 


46 

May  not,  for  the  cries  that  went 
Skyward,  be  the  hymn  of  bliss 

May  not  bloom  a  continent 
Where  was  only  oasis  ! 


WEEP   NOT   FOR  THE   DEAD. 

I  hear  the  voice 
Of  the  expecting  grave Martyr  of  Antioch. 

The  grave  hath  voice,  and  seems  to  say, 

Weep  ye  who  on  my  surface  tread, 
Condemned  to  bear  the  heat  of  day  — 

But  weep  not  for  the  slumbering  dead. 
Weep  ye  for  those  for  whom  no  tear 

Is  given,  the  sorrowing,  the  distressed, 
The  troubled,  whom  there's  none  to  cheer, 

But  not  for  him  that  is  at  rest. 

Weep  for  the  living  wretch,  whose  sighs 

Go  up  for  loss  of  friend  and  lover  ; 
For  him  that  as  survivor  dies, 

Not  him  whose  parting  pangs  are  over. 
Weep  for  the  living  ;  —  he's  alone  ;  — 

Few  are  the  living  ;  who  may  know 
How  few,  compared  to  the  unknown 

Nations  of  men  that  sleep  below  ! 


47 


Weep  for  the  sufferer  who  is  tost 

On  restless  seas  of  pain  and  ill ; 
But  not  for  him  who,  having  crossed 

The  ocean,  rides  secure  and  still. 
Weep  for  the  sinner,  sadder  far  ! 

Who  wanders  in  the  depths  of  night ; 
But  not  for  him  on  whom  the  star 

Of  morning  trembles  out  in  light. 

Weep,  weep  for  her  who  comes  to  weep 

Where  her  sweet  infant  lies  full  low  ; 
Not  for  the  spark  whose  upward  leap 

Hath  made  it  flame  with  eherubs  so  ! 
Weep  for  the  prisoner,  for  the  heir 

Of  misery,  toil,  and  tears  and  pain  ; 
But  not  for  those,  escaped,  who  share 

Immortal  joys,  undying  gain. 


BEAUTY. 

Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks.  —  Ruth. 

Modest  Beauty  praises  God, 
When  it  sends  its  glance  abroad, 
With  a  look  of  cheerfulness  ; 
Beauty  doth  the  Giver  bless, 
When  its  roses  show  the  hue 
Of  bright  health,  with  lip  of  dew, 


48 


And  religion  of  a  face 
Where  is  written  all  of  grace. 
What  a  holy  hymn  is  ever 

With  a  sweet  expression  blent ! 
Sending  music  up,  which  never 

Skilless,  soulless  Art  hath  sent  j 
Rend'ring  worship,  such  as  we 
In  the  lines  of  Beauty  see. 
From  the  eye  of  diadems, 
From  the  mouth  of  pearls  and  gems, 
From  the  smile  of  calm  delight  — 
Beaming  intellectual  light, — 
From  the  nameless,  charming  whole 
That  holds  empire  in  the  soul  — 
Doth  in  harmony  arise 
Beauty's  homage  to  the  skies. 


A  SIMILE. 

In  the  dew-drop  you  behold 

Myriad  splendors  merged  in  one 

Showing,  like  a  sea  of  gold, 
All  the  glories  of  the  sun. 

Man,  before  the  throne  above, — 
Where  no  sinful  foot  hath  trod,- 

Thus  reflects  the  perfect  love 
Of  the  awful,  glorious  God. 


49 


THE    HEAVENLY   REST. 

Know  ye  the  earth,  on  which  ye  tread, 
Is  a  pleasant  garden,  merrily  spread 
With  fruits  of  the  best,  with  earliest  flowers, 
Dimpled  with  dells  and  decked  with  bowers, — 
That  the  saint,  nigh  to  faint,  may  rest  him  there, 
And  the  heart  may  part  with  its  griefs  in  prayer  ; 
And  taste  those  draughts  of  the  ravishing  love 
That  flows  in  the  bosoms  of  the  blest  above  ? 

Know  ye  the  earth,  so  pleasant  to-day, 
Will  pass,  with  its  fruits  and  flowers,  away  ? 
That  its  best  and  earliest  show  in  their  bloom 
The  blight  of  death,  and  decay  of  the  tomb,  — 
And  the  light  so  bright  to  the  dazzled  eye, 
Which  gleams  and  streams  on  its  morning  sky, 
Will  fade  as  the  cloud  that  twilight  sees 
Melt  from  the  heavens  with  evening's  breeze  — 
And  the  peace  which  the  pilgrim  sought  to  know 
He  learns,  in  his  sorrow,  is  not  below  ? 

Know  ye  there  remaineth  a  heavenly  rest 
For  the  weary  one,  and  the  care-opprest  — 
That  ye  need  not  seek  it  on  earth  abroad, 
'Tis  barren  of  bliss  for  the  sons  of  God, — 
That  the  saint  will  faint  in  its  path  of  care, 
And  sigh  and  die,  who  rests  him  there  ; 
4 


50 


That  above,  in  bowers 

Where  the  deathless  flowers 

Of  holiness  bloom, 

No  blight  of  the  tomb 
Can  come,  —  where  sparkling  rivers  of  bliss 
Murmur  on,  as  the  margins  of  beauty  they  kiss  ? 


WATCH   NIGHT. 

"  Three  Watch  Nights  are  mentioned  in  the  Bible  —  the  Egyp- 
tian Watch  Night,  when  the  Israelites  were  delivered  ;  our  Lord's 
Watch  Night  in  the  garden  ;  Paul  and  Silas'  Watch  Night." 

Watch  Night,  of  old, 

God's  chosen,  bold, 
Held,  when  their  hosts  he  came, 

From  scourge  and  guile, 

And  lands  of  Nile, 
To  lead,  in  cloud  and  flame. 

His  Watch  Night,  sad, 

When  Satan  had 
One  boastful  hour  the  throne  — 

Immanuel  kept, 

While  angels  wept 
To  see  their  Lord  alone. 


51 

'Twas  Watch  Night,  when 

Philippi's  den 
Strange  music  poured  on  high,  - 

And  bolts  and  chain, 

Like  threads,  in  twain, 
Snapt  at  the  earthquake's  cry. 

Up  !  Watch  Night,  now, 

Hold  ice,  who  bow 
In  joy  and  trembling  here. 

Give  louder  song  ! 

Though  wait  we  long, 
The  Master  will  appear. 

Up  !  Watch  Night  keep, 

Ye,  that  in  sleep 
Have  lain  —  your  torches  trim  ! 

Who  of  his  train, 

When  Christ  again 
Appears,  will  wake  for  Him  9 

Up  !  when  burns  noon, 

Or  when  the  moon 
Ascends  her  midnight  way,  — 

He  cometh  !  see 

That  waiting,  ye 
Do  greet  the  Bridegroom's  day. 

Such,  when  their  shrouds 
Men  leave,  and  clouds 


52 

Reveal  the  throne  to  view  — 
Shall  win,  — toils  past,— 
Bright  crowns  at  last ; 

Soul !  is  there  crown  for  you  f 


A  HEAVEN   OF   HOLINESS. 

The  thought  of  a  heaven  of  holiness  is  my  solace.  -  James 
Brainerd  Taylor. 

Sweet  heaven  !  to  know  thee  holy, 

Were  dearer  to  my  soul, 
Than  sight  of  all  the  glory 

Whose  seas  about  thee  roll. 
The  floods  of  splendor,  streaming 

From  ecstacies  of  light, 
To  purity  there  beaming, 

My  God,  were  only  night ! 

Sweet  heaven  !  the  song  of  gladness 

That  thrills  the  upper  air, 
To  me  were  note  of  sadness, 

If  "  Holy  "  were  not  there. 
No  more  to  bright  harps  given 

On  holiness  to  dwell  — 
Its  bliss  would  fly,  and  heaven 

Be  but  a  better  hell. 


53 


Sweet  heaven  !  where  saints  are  singing, 

Where  angels  join  the  lay, 
To  thee  I  would  be  winging 

My  upward,  homeward  way. 
Where  crystal  walls  forever 

Show  holiness  within  ; 
Where  golden  gates  ope  never 

To  sorrow,  death  or  sin  ! 


JACOBS   WELL. 

He  journeyed  on  to  Galilee, 

Unheralded  by  fame, 
And  wearily  to  Jacob's  Well 

The  heavenly  Teacher  came. 
Upon  that  fountain's  granite  lip, 

He  leaned,  and  gazed  below, 
Where  the  cool  waters  gushed  and  foamed, 

And  leaped  in  frolic  flow. 

Who  would  have  thought  that  weary  man, 

Reclined  in  mean  attire 
Here  in  Samaria,  was  the  theme 

Of  all  the  angel  choir  ? 
That  for  this  wanderer,  faint  with  thirst, 

Were  heaven  and  hell  at  strife, — 
That  he  possessed  the  crystal  key 

Which  opes  the  Well  of  Life  ? 


54 


Oh,  when  I  meet,  henceforth,  the  sad 

And  humble  man  of  care, 
Let  me  not  scorn  his  presence,  lest 

I  weave  myself  a  snare  : 
For  in  that  poor  and  broken  wretch, 

By  whom  the  dunghill's  trod, 
Unerring  Scrutiny  may  spy 

A  sceptered  son  of  God. 


TEXAS. 

Admit  her  to  the  Union  ?     Yes  ! 

If  our  democracy  can  bow 
To  kings,  and  is  prepared  to  kiss 

The  loathsome  hem  of  tyrants  now  ; 
From  principles  that  years  have  tried, 

If  thus  we  fall,  no  longer  men, 
And  to  our  fathers'  deeds  of  pride 

Are  recreant  —  why,  admit  her,  then  ! 

If  names  that  moved  us,  move  no  more, 

And  we,  degenerate,  are  ashamed 
Of  fields  once  wrapt  in  flame  and  gore, 

And  deem  those  spirits  to  be  blamed  ; 
If  Bunker  Hill  flings  up  reproach, 

And  Lexington's  the  mock  of  men, — 
Bid  them  "  God  speed  "  who  would  encroach 

On  justice  —  and  admit  her,  then  ! 


55 


If  Hancock,  Adams,  Warren,  were 

Deluded  fools  that  chased  a  dream, 
And  Washington  ambitious,  where 

The  patriot's  sword  was  wont  to  gleam  ; 
If  all  the  bright  green  spots  that  mark 

The  veteran's  bed,  by  stream  and  glen, 
Hide  traitors,  —  on  their  memories,  dark 

Deep  curses  rest  —  admit  her,  then  ! 

If  Slavery's  foul  and  damning  spot 

Must  here  increase,  like  Ahab's  cloud, 
Blackening  the  firmament,  till  not 

One  star  shall  blaze  upon  the  proud ; 
If  thus,  a  spectacle  of  scorn 

To  nations,  we're  content,  —  let  men 
Lift  up  the  consummated  horn 

Of  infamy  —  admit  her,  then  ! 

But  if  the  loud,  indignant  cry 

Heard  round  the  world,  has  power  ;  if  soon 
Must  hateful  error  droop  and  die, 

And  truth  stand  out  to  burning  noon  ; 
[f  down  Time's  ages  lives  our  land, 

The  proudest,  last  retreat  for  men, 
Her  flag  by  freedom's  breezes  fanned, — 

Ye'll  not  —  ye  can't  admit  her,  then  ! 

Now  is  the  time,  and  now's  the  hour  ; 

Through  our  republic's  breadth  and  length, 
From  hall  and  cot,  from  town  and  tower, 

Let  answer  go  in  Virtue's  strength  ; 


56 


And  peal  far  round  the  startling  cry  — 
We,  whose  old  fathers  struck  the  blow, 

We,  who  for  freedom  dare  to  die  — 

In  million  voices  thunder,  NO  !  1837. 


DEPARTURE   OF    THE    ISRAELITES. 

ON    SEEING    THE    PICTURE    REPRESENTING    THE    ABOVE. 

I  gaze,  and  gaze,  and  willingly  confess 

The  pencil's  triumph.     Breathe  not,  daring  Muse  ! 
Nor  language  give  to  trooping  thoughts  that  press 

For  utterance.  And  methinks  thou  canst  not  choose 

But  to  be  silent ;  dreamingly  to  lose 
Thyself  in  witchery  of  the  olden  times, 

As  Egypt's  awful  beauty,  richly  seen 
In  morn's  grey  softness,  rises,  and  the  chimes 

Of  feet  departing  ring,  with  joyous  cries  between. 

While  on  the  mighty  caravan,  the  sheen 
Of  royalty,  the  century-telling  pyramid, 
And  obelisk,  and  gods  that  frown  in  stone, — 
Dumb  in  the  tumult !  —  gazing  —  Fancy,  chid, 
Retires,  to  wonder  and  to  weep  alone. 

Yet  it  is  noble  thus  to  contemplate 

Almighty  power.     With  what  a  majesty 

Is  God  encompassed,  while  are  seen  the  hate 
Of  wily  priest,  and  wrath  of  tyranny, 


57 


Impotent  to  forbid,  when  He  ordains  ! 

No  implements  of  Avar,  nor  chariots  armed, 

Move  the  proud   monarch.     The  same  voice  that 
calmed 
Chaos  to  order,  tells  of  One  who  reigns, 

By  whom  kings  reign  ;  and  once  more  hath  that 
voice 
Spoken  to  Pharaoh  —  and  the  first-born,  dead, 
Have  also  spoken,  "  Let  the  people  go  !  *' 

In  songs  of  glad  deliverance  they  rejoice, 
And  by  the  rod  of  miracles  forth  led, 
Depart  —  that  pagan  Egypt  may  Jehovah  know. 


THE    SEA   OF    GALILEE. 

O  Jesus  !  once  on  Galilee 

Thy  voice  of  power  was  heard, 

When  madly  that  dark-heaving  sea 
Through  all  its  depths  was  stirred. 

The  forky  lightnings  Thee  revealed, 
Calm,  'mid  the  storm's  increase, 

And  far  above  where  thunders  pealed, 
Was  heard  the  whisper,  "  Peace  !  " 

How  drooped  at  once  that  foaming  sheet 

Of  waters,  vexed  and  wild  ! 
Each  wave  came  falling  at  thy  feet, 

Just  like  an  humbled  child. 


58 


So  rages  my  tumultuous  breast, 
So  chafes  my  maniac  will ;  — 

Speak  !  and  these  troubled  seas  shall  rest, 
Speak  !  and  the  storm  is  still. 


ELEGIAC. 

MRS.  M.  A.,  OF    LANDISBURG,  PENNSYLVANIA. 

The  few  I  have  tried  in  this  hollow  world, 
Like  jewels  of  worth  in  chaff  impearled, 
Have  paled  as  I  looked,  and  faded  away 
To  shine  in  coronals  of  perfect  day. 
The  few  I  have  loved  in  its  desolate  path, 
Who  lightened  its  sorrows  and  blunted  its  scath, 
Have  followed  each  other  on  speedier  wing, 
Impatient  for  glory.     O  God,  what  a  thing 
Of  misery  and  mocking  is  one  thus  bereft ;  — 
All  gone  life's  endearments,  and  he  alone  left ! 
Why  is  it,  the  gifted  and  gracious,  who  thus 
Almost  the  whole  species  redeem  from  the  curse 
Of  selfishness,  —  deeply  burnt  into  the  heart, — 
Just  show  what  was  Eden,  and,  pluming,  depart  — 
Just  come  on  our  darkness  with  light  that  illumes 
Like  the  storm-flash  that  leaves  us  to  drearier  glooms  ? 
Just  make  us  in  love  with  real  goodness,  and  then 
Vanish  like  angels  from  bowers  of  men  ? 


59 


Is  it  to  wean  us  from  all  that  below 

Glads  us,  and  cheats  with  ephemeral  show  ? 

Is  it  from  earth  to  the  heavenly  blue 

Bidding  us  look,  and  feel  nothing  is  true 

Or  beautiful  long  on  the  dust  we  have  trod  — 

That  the  true  and  the  lovely  are  only  for  God  ? 

Such,  Mary  !  wast  thou  —  and  invited  to  range 

The  pathway  of  brightness,  but  little  the  change 

That  was  needed  for  thee  ;  —  'twas  only  to  stop 

On  the  threshold  and  smile  thy  farewell,  and  so  drop 

The  garment  of  clay  that  but  cumbered,  and  then, 

For  transports,  mortality  never  may  ken  ! 

I  return  thy  farewell,  and  hence  softly  will  tread 

The  path  that  yet  winds  'mid  the  dying  and  dead, — 

And  checking,  at  thought  of  thy  freedom,  the  tear, 

As  Time  takes  each  link  up  that  fetters  me  here, 

Will  thank  our  kind  Father,  a  holier  rest, 

A  balm  for  the  mourner,  a  home  for  the  blest 

Are  thine,  where  is  garnered  nor  falsehood  nor  folly, 

Nor  tears  of  the  broken,  nor  dark  melancholy  — 

But  where  the  sweet  fountains  that  murmur  in  sounds 

Of  music,  are  flowing  o'er  happier  grounds  ; 

Where  wander  for  ever,  in  beautiful  bloom, 

Earth's  languid  and  sick,  and  the  lost  of  the  tomb, — 

Where  the  innocent  babe  like  a  bud  never  dies, 

Where  the  hand  of  compassion  wipes  tears  from  all 

eyes  ; 
Where  the  city  of  God  shoots  its  pinnacles  high, 
Whose  walls  of  clear  jasper  ne'er  echo  the  sigh  ; 
Where  yet  I  may  hope,  in  the  sapphire-laid  street, 
Thee,  Mary  !  with  others  long  wept  for,  to  meet. 


60 


Thou  canst  not,  oh,  Grave  !  there  thy  victory  bring, — 
Thou  canst  not,  oh,  Death  !  follow  there  with  thy  sting. 


I'LL   LOOK   TO   THEE. 

I'll  look  to  thee,  my  Saviour  !  when 

The  gales  of  fortune  gently  blow, 
And  every  good,  esteemed  of  men, 

It  is  my  privilege  to  know. 
I'll  look  from  altars,  whereon  lie 

The  coals  of  earth's  imperfect  fire, 
To  that  bright  source  beyond  the  sky, 

Which  burns  intenser,  holier,  higher. 

I'll  look  to  thee,  when  sorrows  press 

With  awful  weight  upon  my  head, — 
A  wanderer  in  this  wilderness, 

Alone,  or  with  the  joyless  dead. 
When  hope  still  sleeps,  and  wakeful  thought 

Preys  on  its  hoarded  misery, 
Even  then,  by  thy  sweet  precept  taught, 

In  tears  I'll  only  look  to  thee. 

I'll  look  to  thee,  when  sickness  pales 
This  brow,  and  wastes  this  frame  away ; 

When  strength  departs  and  spirit  fails, 
And  all  my  inward  powers  decay. 


01 


Yea,  at  the  hour  when  nature  faints 

In  its  last  mortal  agony, 
Strong  in  the  Refuge  of  the  saints, 

I'll  look  to  thee,  I'll  look  to  thee. 


A   PORTRAIT.* 

He  ministers  where  busy  men 

Do  cluster  in  the  mart  of  Penn. 

Its  northern  suburbs  well  have  known 

The  light  that  twenty  years  hath  shone 

In  many  an  alley,  lane  and  street 

Of  those  throno-ed  Liberties,  where  meet 
The  careless,  moral  and  profane. 

In  many  a  house  his  ready  feet 
Have  visited,  a  soul  to  gain, 
Whom  he  hath  warned,  and  not  in  vain. 

Wouldst  note  him  ?     Seek  yon  dome  of  prayer, 

His  'customed  place  —  behold  him  there. 

He  stands,  with  form  that  toil  hath  bowed, 

In  meekness  to  delight  that  crowd. 

His  furrowed  cheek  and  thin  grey  hair  •" 

Would  tell  of  age,  did  not  that  eye 

Of  kindling  spark,  the  thought  deny;  — 

*  Written  while  its  original,  Rev.  James  Patterson,  of  Phila- 
delphia, was  in  the  midst  of  his  days  and  usefulness,  and  eix 
weeks  prior  to  his  sudden  and  lamented  death. 


Would  tell  of  weakness,  did  not  lips 
Of  burning  eloquence,  and  heart 

That  into  Heaven's  mystery  dips, 
Instruction,  awe  and  peace  impart. 

With  Saxon  strength  of  language,  he 

Pours  thoughts  that  rise  in  giant  strength  ; 
With  quaint,  appropriate  imagery, 
Convincing  in  simplicity, 

He  shows  his  subject's  breadth  and  length. 
The  weapon  doth  he  strongly  draw, 
Bright,  keen  and  tempered,  of  the  law  ; 
And  while  fools  cavil  that  its  edge 

Wears  not  a  nice  and  useless  shine, 
It  severs  like  a  mighty  wedge 

The  gnarled  tough  heart  with  power  divine. 

Dost  ask  for  fruit  ?     'Tis  ample  —  some 

Is  gathered  up  to  bless  him  here  ; 
And  from  earth's  confines  men  shall  come, 

His  crown,  when  lost  are  star  and  sphere. 
"  That  Day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  Day 
When  heaven  and  earth  will  pass  away"  — 
As  swells  abroad  the  last  trump's  sound, 
Let  me  be  found  where  he  is  found  ! 
As  sinks  beneath  my  foot  the  land, 
Let  me  but  stand  where  he  doth  stand. 

Who  shall  be  greatest  deemed  of  all 
That  sit  in  white  on  thrones  above  ? 


03 


Not  him  for  gifts  esteemed,  like  Paul, 
But  who  like  Paul  hath  toiled  in  love. 

Earth's  great  ones,  while  abashed  they  wear 
In  heaven,  a  rayless  diadem, 

Shall  see  such  high  in  glory  there, 

Spangled  and  starred  with  many  a  gem. 

October,  183^ 


IN    MEMORY    OF    THE    PRECr.DI  XT,. 

There  are  others  who  fall  on  the  fields  of  their  fame, 
The  warriors  of  Christ,  that  on  earth  have  a  name, 
And  a  place  in  the  glorious  records  on  high, 
Who  live  in  applause  and  in  triumph  who  die, 
And  sleep  where  their  tablets  to  passengers  tell 
How  bravely  they  battled,  how  nobly  they  fell  — 
Yet  none  stir  the  depths  of  such  feeling  in  me, 
As  rise,  holy  man  !  when  I  think  upon  thee. 

There  are  scribes,  well  instructed,  that  rightly  divide 
The  word,  and  choice  leaders  to  teach  and  to  guide  ; 
There  are  those  in  the  service,  like  cedars,  how  tall ! 
And  strong  for  the  Lord,  like  the  veteran  Paul ; 
With  lips  whence  the  music  persuasively  flows, 
Of  a  mind  that  with  fervor  and  eloquence  glows, — 
And  yet  who  would  buy  their  renown  with  one  tear 
That  comes  from  the  heart  of  the  lowliest  here  ? 

I  cannot  forget,  when  but  few  or  none  cared 
For  a  soul  in  the  web  of  sin's  artifice  snared, 


64 


How  kindly  thou  laboredst  to  free  me  —  and  now, 
Though  a  robe's  on  thy  form  and  a  light  on  thy  brow, 
And  glory,  where  yesterday  lingered  decay, 
And  wings  plumed  around  thee  that  bear  thee  away 
From  sickness  and  sorrow  —  I  cannot  but  sigh 
One  needed  to  live  should  so  speedily  die. 

I  knew  thee  to  love  thee  ;  but  long  ere  I  knew 
Thy  faithfulness,  goodness  and  fellowship  true, 
Thou  didst  follow  my  step  while  a  stranger  to  both 
Thy  God  and  thyself,  and  to  holiness  loath,  — 
And  watched  me  and  warned  me,  and  showed  me  the 

way 
Whence  youth,  just  as  heedless,  unguardedly  stray  — 
Nor  paused  thou,  till  peace,  driven  far  by  the  rod, 
I  sought  as  one  earnest,  and  found  it  in  God. 

There  are  hearts,  perhaps  hundreds,  where  thou  wast 

enshrined, 
That  will  bleed  at  this  blow, —  to  the  Giver  resigned,— 
There  are  thousands  whom  thou  to  the  Shepherd  hast 

led, 
And  comforted,  chidden,  wept  over  and  fed  ; 
And  some,   thy  first  fruits,  have    their   toils  ended 

first, 
And  some,  in  bereavement,  have  bowed  o'er  thy  dust, 
And  a  flock  thou  hast  blest,  and  by  whom  thou  wert 

blest, 
A  widow  —  the  fatherless  —  tears  tell  the  rest. 

We  muse  on  this  trial,  stern,  grievous  and  strange, 
And  ask,  while  despondingly  viewing  the  change 


65 

Made    where   the   death-angel   has   swept   his   wide 

wing  — 
Art  angry,  oh,  Father  ?  or  why  is  this  thing  ? 
We  plead  in  our  trouble,  wilt  Thou,  too,  depart ! 
The  righteous  man  dies  and  none  lay  it  to  heart :  — 
Yet  answer  is  given  —  "  Away  to  his  home 
I've  taken  him,  only  from  evil  to  come." 

From  evil  to  come  !  — if  the  strength  of  thy  host 
Is  broke,  shall  thy  cause  not  be  counted  as  lost  ? 
Yet  no  !  when  the  faithful  is  called  from  the  field, 
We'll  hear  but  thy  voice,  "  Cease  from  man  as  your 

shield  !  " 
And  learning  from  him,  — who  his  sword  has  laid 

down 
To  take  a  new  harp  and  receive  a  glad  crown, — 
We'll  watch  for  souls  wandering,  and  win  them  above, 
And  spend  and  be  spent,  like  thy  servant,  in  love. 

I  heard,  uttered  John,  and  a  voice  spake  from  heaven, 
Blessed  hence  are  the  dead  unto  whom  it  is  given 
To  die  in  the  Lord  !     Oh,  the  light  is  not  dim, 
That  beams  in  such  blessedness  now  upon  him, 
Who   for    trials    through   which   he   has   sorrowing 

past, 
Has  honor  and  glory  and  beauty  at  last ; 
And  for  draughts  drank  in  bitterness  only,  below, 
The  streams  that  from  fountains  of  happiness  flow. 

November  25,  1837. 
5 


66 


MADAGASCAR. 

"  No  man  of  God  shall  tread  this  isle," 

The  queen  of  Madagascar  said ; 
"  Who  Christ  shall  teach,  by  force  or  guile, 
Shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  his  head. 
Our  gods,  that  give  us  weal  or  curse, 
Abused  or  praised,  will  do  for  us." 

"  Bring  forth  the  wretches  who  forsake 
The  altars  which  our  fathers  served  ; 
Be  theirs  the  dungeon,  stripe  and  stake, 

Reward  of  treason,  well  deserved. 
Draw  out  the  sharp  and  shining  spear, 
With  vengeance  flushed  —  impale  them  here. 

She  did  not  know  that  One  who  sits 
Above,  doth  at  the  scoffers  laugh ; 

And  holds  in  scorn  their  feeble  wits, 
And  drives  their  hopes  away  as  chaff. 

Nor  knew  that  royal  David  cries 

To  kings  and  queens,  "  Be  wise,  be  wise." 

That  He,  on  heaven's  circle,  spurns 
What  princes  deem  their  fondest  joy  ; 

And  overturns,  and  overturns 
Their  empires,  like  an  idle  toy. 


67 


And  in  displeasure,  sore,  doth  vex 

The  wolves  that  would  His  fold  perplex. 

What  though  this  Madagascar  queen 
Pursue  the  conscript  men  of  God  : 

And  with  her  sacrifice,  obscene, 

To  horrid  demons,  mix  their  blood,  — 

Let  all  earth's  kings  his  message  shun. 

They  must  submit,  and  kiss  the  Son. 

Though  in  the  galaxy  that  flames 

Before  the  eye  of  angels,  she 
Joins  to  those  high  immortal  names 

The  lowly,  scorned,  Ra-sa-la-me,* 
Who  had  for  martyr-fame  no  thirst  — 
Of  Madagascar's  martyrs  first ;  — 

We  know  the  light  of  Beth'lem's  star 
Shall  reach  the  darkest  depths  of  guilt, 

Though  edicts  swarm  of  pope  and  czar, 
By  pagan  sword  though  blood  be  spilt. 

For  has  not  God  declared  decree  — 
"  The  earth,  my  Son,  I  give  to  Thee  ?  ", 

*  Ra-sa-la-me  spoke  so  buldly  in  defence  of  Christianity,  that 
she  was  fixed  upon  as  the  victim  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the 
queen.  She  was  most  severely  whipped  for  several  days  succes- 
sively, before  she  was  put  to  death  —  a  thing  never  heard  of  be- 
fore in  Madagascar.  She,  however,  continued  steadfast  to  the 
end,  and  met  death  with  such  calmness  and  tranquillity,  that  the 
executioners  repeatedly  declared  that  "  there  was  some  charm  in 
the  religion  of  the  whites,  that  took  away  the  dread  of  death."— 
Missionary  Herald  fur  February,  1839. 


Then  fly,  ye  ships  !  to  heathen  coasts, 
Deep  freighted  with  salvation's  gem, — 

And  bear  the  sacramental  hosts 

Where  blinded  nations  wait  for  them  : 

The  world  by  Grace  must  yet  be  won  ; 

By  man  the  labor  must  be  done. 


THE   CLEANSING. 

Jesus  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  and  found  in  the  temple  those 
that  sold  oxen,  and  sheep  and  doves,  and  the  changers  of  money 
sitting;  and  when  he  had  made  a  scourge  of  small  cords,  he 
drove  them  all  out  of  the  temple,  and  the  sheep  and  the  oxen  ; 
and  poured  out  the  changers'  money,  and  overthrew  the  tables  ; 
and  said  unto  those  that  sold  doves,  Take  these  things  hence.  — 
John  ii.  13  —  16. 

Messiah  saw  within 
The  holy  court 
Of  his  own  Temple,  grievous  sin, 
Traffic  and  mummery  and  sport. 

The  money  changers  sat, 
Watching  for  gain, 
Stout  oxen,  sheep,  lambs,  sleek  and  fat, 
That  should  in  sacrifice  be  slain. 

He  drove  out  beast  and  men 
Forth  to  the  day  ; 
And  to  the  fair  dove-sellers  then 

Said,  gently,  "  Take  these  things  away." 


69 


How  could  a  corded  whip 
Expel  those  thence, 
Wielded  by  one,  —  and  not  a  lip 
Move,  nor  an  arm  in  fierce  defence  ? 

'Twas  not  the  feeble  rod 
That  made  the  rout : 
They  saw  his  eye —  they  knew  the  God, 
The  present  God,  then  flashing  out ! 


THE   DEDICATION. 

Arise,  O  Lord!  Thou  and  the  ark  of  thy  strength;  let  thy 
priests  be  clothed  with  salvation,  and  let  thy  saints  shout  aloud 
for  joy.  —  The  Psalmist. 

Richly  arose  the  diapason's  swell, 
That  failed  not  our  low  praise  in  heaven  to  tell. 
Fervently  went,  on  wings  of  faith,  the  prayer 
That  God  indeed  would  tabernacle  there, 
And  shed,  as  silent  dew,  refreshing  grace. 
Earnest  the  words  which  set  apart  the  place 

For  joyful,  solemn  worship.     Now,  then,  come  ! 
Oh,  Father  !  here  record  thy  awful  name. 

Incarnate  Jesus  !  Thou,  the  embodied  sum 
Of  each  desire,  of  every  good,  here  claim 
Souls  for  thy  travail.     Holy  Ghost !  draw  near, 
By  the  woke  conscience  and  the  secret  tear. 
Us,  waiting,  Triune  God  !  Sire  !  Son  !  and  Dove  ! 
Fill  with  thyself— thyself !     Illimitable  Love. 


70 


THE   OPIUM   SHIPS. 

Almost  incredible  quantities  of  opium  have  been  smuggled 
into  China,  under  the  sanction  of  the  government  of  British  In- 
dia. At  this  very  time,  says  a  traveller,  though  efforts  so  extra- 
ordinary and  persevering  have  been  put  forth  by  the  Chinese 
authorities  to  stop  this  infernal  traffic,  there  are  twenty-four 
opium  ships  on  the  coast.  Since  these  verses  were  written,  in- 
formation has  been  received  that  the  Chinese  authorities  have 
succeeded  in  their  efforts  to  destroy  this  trade. 

Av,  flap  your  wings,  ill-omened  birds, 

Impatient  for  your  prey  ; 
Infest  in  swarms  the  Chinese  seas, 

For  who  shall  say  ye  "  Nay  ?  " 
Watch  for  the  moment  to  inflict 
Foul  wrong,  in  spite  of  interdict. 

What  though  your  fearful  errand's  fraught 
With  death,  death  which  is  hell  — 

And  by  the  traffic  Mercy  bleeds, 
Flock  on,  for  all  is  well : 

The  end  shall  justify  the  means, 

Your  trade  is  nursed  by  kings  and  queens. 

Through  all  her  unoffending  realm 

The  ripened  plague  spot  bear, 
Till  China  is  one  lazar-house 

Of  misery  and  despair. 
Let  avarice  urge  your  flowing  sails, 
Let  selfishness  bestow  the  gales. 


71 


The  Upas  flings  its  poison  forth,  — 

In  this  resembling  ye ; 
And  wo  to  bird  or  beast  or  man, 

That  sees  the  fatal  tree. 
The  Upas  to  one  spot's  confined, 
Ye  carry  death  on  every  wind. 

And  laugh,  ye  men,  as  their  vile  chain 

Your  idiot  victims  hug  ; 
And  mock,  as  they  suck  endless  pain 

From  your  forbidden  drug. 
What's  law  to  him  who  wins  the  goal  ? 
Compared  to  money,  whafs  the  soul  ? 

Ye  may,  ye  may,  for  Christians  choose 

That  deed  to  line  the  purse, 
Which  "  scoundrel  pagans"  would  refuse 

With  scorn  to  do  to  us. 
Yet  pause,  beware,  and  fear  the  rod, — 
Though  conscience  sleeps,  there  wakes  a  God  ! 

1839. 


DAY  OF  PRAYER  FOR  COLLEGES 

THE  LAST  THURSDAY  IX  FE3KUART. 

Oh,  mother,  in  those  college  walls 

Thou  hast  a  precious  son  ; 
A  banqueter  in  learning's  halls, 

And  yet  by  want  undone. 


72 

Arrayed  in  rings  and  goodly  vest, 
Thick  honors  near  him  tread  ; 

And  yet  is  he  in  penury  drest, 
Unfriended  and  unfed. 

What  boots  it  that  his  table  groans 

With  loads  of  classic  wheat  ? 
As  well  feast  craving  mind  with  stones, 

As  only  on  this  meat. 
What  boots  it  on  his  robes  are  starred 

Rare  gems  and  Grecian  gold, 
If  not  to  him  may  be  unbarred 

The  gates  of  wealth  untold  ? 

If  not  to  him  is  oped  the  lid 

In  which  the  soul  may  look, 
And  gather  wisdom,  never  hid 

Within  the  Sybil's  book  ? 
Oh,  why  is  Science  racked  to  give 

Her  buried  stores  to  man, 
While  Truth,  which  teaches  how  to  live, 

Is  put  beneath  the  ban  ! 

That  morn  he  left  thee,  far  to  roam 

On  life's  uncertain  way, 
Far  from  a  mother  —  far  from  home, 

What  couldst  thou  do  but  pray  ? 
Ay,  prostrate  on  thy  closet  floor, 

What  didst  thou  do  but  weep, 
And  plead  that  God,  for  evermore, 

Thy  student-lad  would  keep  ? 


73 


Thou  knewest  the  tossing  ocean-world 

But  little  heeds  his  lot, 
Who  to  its  storms  has  sail  unfurled 

And  recks  the  danger  not. 
Thou  knewest  that  many  a  noble  heart, 

As  proudly  glad  as  he, 
The  light  of  home,  has  folly  quenched 

In  that  tumultuous  sea. 

Ah  !  little  didst  thou  deem  of  feet 

That  ever  lurk  within 
The  Muse's  most  secure  retreat, 

To  draw  her  sons  to  sin  ;  — 
Or  of  the  outward  twining  flower, 

Or  pearl  within  the  cup, 
That  woos  them  at  the  unguarded  hour 

To  drink  the  poison  up. 

To  prayer  !  to  prayer  !  a  teeming  cloud 

Is  on  the  land  this  hour  ; 
'Twill  rise  to  heaven,  and  deep,  not  loud, 

Will  be  the  plenteous  shower. 
Wilt  thou  not  haste  with  eager  joy, 

And  in  its  blessings  share  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  for  thy  perilled  boy 

Entreat  ?  —  To  prayer  !  to  prayer  ! 

Go  !  for  on  moments  of  rich  grace, 
The  world's  high  issues  rest ;  — 

Not  only  he  may  find  the  place 
Of  mercy  and  be  blest, 


74 


But  thousands,  through  the  mighty  word 

Thy  herald-son  will  bear, 
Shall  live  for  aye  !  —  Art  thou  not  stirred 

To  prayer  !  this  hour  to  prayer  ! 


THE   PALM  TREE. 

Beautiful  tree  of  the  towering  stem  ! 
Wearing  thy  flowers  like  a  diadem  — 
Whose  leafy  garlands,  always  green, 
Always  fair  and  flowing  are  seen  ; 
Whose  scarlet  fruit,  like  coral  bright, 
To  the  longing  traveller  yields  delight j 
Noblest  thou  of  the  forest  throng  ! 
To  thee  I  give  a  simple  song. 
I  never  saw  thee,  princely  plant, 
In  Syria's  vales,  nor  in  thy  haunt  — 
"  The  city  of  palm  trees,"  Jericho, 
Nor  where  the  Jordan's  currents  flow, 
Nor  where  the  mighty  Lebanon  sees, 
In  pride,  his  aged  cedar  trees. 
Nor  where  is  found  the  clustering  vine. 
Or  tempting  olive  of  Palestine. 
Nor  in  the  distant  desert,  where 
Palmyra's  solemn  ruins  are  ;  — 
Yet  I  have  loved  thee,  since  a  boy, 
It  was  at  home  my  glad  employ 
To  read,  beneath  my  father's  eye, 
In  Holy  Writ ;  —  and  gladly  I 


lb 


Did  in  the  blessed  Sabbath's  calm, 

Read  and  talk  of  the  stately  palm  ; 

That  the  good  shall  be  like  the  flourishing  tree, 

Planted  by  the  gushing  river  ; 

Which  yields  in  his  season  his  fruit,  and  he, 

The  evergreen,  shall  never  wither. 

The  pilgrim  eagerly  looks  for  Thee, 

When  faint  and  almost  spent  with  thirst ; 

He  knows  where  thou  art,  guiding  tree  ! 

The  cool  deep  waters  freshly  burst. 

O  thus  may  I  to  my  Saviour  seek, 

When  in  this  desert  faint  and  weak, 

Assured  that  He  my  steps  will  show 

Where  springs  of  life  eternally  flow. 


SLEEP. 

Sleep  is  awful.  —  Byron. 

To  him  at  strife  with  conscience,  sleep 

Must  be  a  thing  of  dread  ; 
What  images  of  horror  leap 

Like  fiends  about  his  bed  ! 
He  tosses  on  the  eider  down, — 

The  finely  textured  sheet 
That  wraps  his  body,  fails  to  give 

The  rest  to  nature  sweet. 

Yet  is  sleep  "  awful  ?  "  —  Ask  the  hind 
That  plods  among  the  corn, 


76 


How  seemeth  slumber  unto  him, 

Who  toils  from  rosy  morn 
Till  welcome  evening  browns  the  hills  ; 

He  laughs  at  such  a  word ; 
What  is  there  awful  to  his  breast 

By  no  ill  musings  stirred  ? 

In  visions  of  the  night,  when  earth, 

So  late  in  arms,  is  dumb, 
And  all  is  hushed,  save  troubled  thoughts 

That  like  dark  phantoms  come,  — 
How  sadly  rise,  in  long  array, 

The  deeds  men  deemed  were  fled  ! 
How  busy  cruel  memory  then, 

With  things  long  fancied  dead  ! 

Then  sleep  is  awful  —  wonder  not 

That  he  who  sin  did  choose, 
Still  found  all  things  designed  for  good, 

To  yield  him  good  refuse. 
Or  that  in  his  soul's  agony, 

With  every  mercy  given 
He  battled,  who  in  madness  waged 

Impotent  war  with  Heaven.* 

To  such,  each  gift  of  love,  of  life, 

Each  than  the  other  worse  — 
Can  only  be,  in  its  abuse, 

A  constant,  bitter  curse. 

*  Vide  Lord  Byron's  verses  on  completing  his  thirty-sixth  year 
The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle,  &c. 


77 


For  what  to  virtue  blessings  are, 
Most  sweet,  and  safe  and  kind,  — 

Are  evils,  terrible  to  him 
Of  sin-distempered  mind. 


IDOLS. 

On  receiving  from  Rev.  A.  Judson,  missionary  in  Burmab,  a 
Boodh,  which  was  taken  by  him  from  a  deserted  temple  on  the 
banks  of  the  Selwin. 

The  idols  of  the  orient  bow 
Abashed,  to  a  superior  power  ; 
And  weeds  offend  the  pilgrim  now, 
Where  flaunted  priest,  and  glittered  tower. 

They  come  !  they  come  !  from  silent  shrines 
Of  Gunga,  and  the  blue  Selwin  ; 
Though  dumb  —  to  us  convincing  signs 
Of  rising  truth  and  falling  sin. 

They  come  !  those  conquered  gods  !  to  stir 
Our  lagging  faith,  and  show  that  He 
Whose  is  the  church,  will  give  to  her 
The  world  beyond  the  Indian  sea. 

And  Boodh  ! — that  from  the  sculptor's  hand 
Dropt,  fresh  in  marble,  years  ago, 
Sent  me  by  one  of  that  true  band, 
Whose  future  crowns  are  starred  below  — 


78 


Though  thy  recumbent  chiselled  limbs 
Are  spotted  now,  methinks,  with  blood, 
Poured  ages  since,  'mid  hellish  hymns 
Of  praise  to  guilt's  incarnate  god  ; 

Yet  hail  I  here  thy  presence  !  not 
Exultingly,  o'er  senseless  stone  ; 
Or  haughtily,  because  my  lot 
Is  cast  where  better  things  are  known  ; 

But  gladly  —  for  thou  tellest  me 
The  fiend  of  darkness  plumes  his  wings, 
And  earth,  enlightened,  hastes  to  be 
Subjected  to  the  King  of  kings. 


DEATH   AT  THE   MIRROR. 

The  case  of  a  young  and  beautiful  lady  is  mentioned,  who, 
while  arraying  herself  before  the  mirror,  for  her  bridal,  was 
struck  with  death. 

Oh,  Death  !   'tis  thine  to  choose 
Strange  time  to  execute  the  stern  decree  ; 
As  if  provoked  that  mortals  still  refuse, 
In  their  forgetfulness,  to  learn  of  thee. 

Not  only  youth  thy  dart 
Searches  with  silent  and  unerring  aim, 

But  at  the  moment  when  the  warm,  full  heart 
Nourishes  hope,  and  joy's  delicious  flame, 


79 


Thou  layest  the  beauty  low. 
And  then,  in  mockery  of  all  thats  fair, 

Dost  bid  us  gaze,  and  see  what  empty  show, 
What  dust  and  ashes  our  fond  idols  are. 


SONG   FROM    SCRIPTURE 

Aud  they  shall  see  his  face.  —  Revelation  xxii.  4. 

They  tell  of  the  region  of  bliss, 

And  its  tree  of  twelve  manner  of  fruits, 

On  whose  leaf  falls  the  lightest  winds  kiss, 
And  clearest  of  streams  on  its  roots. 

They  tell  of  the  city,  whose  walls 

Are  jasper,  whose  pavements  are  gold  ; 

The  splendor  that  lightens  its  halls, 
Immortals  may  only  behold. 

They  tell  me  its  gates,  of  one  pearl, 

Shall  never  be  folded  by  day  ; 
His  curtain  night  ne'er  shall  unfurl 

O'er  its  bright  and  its  beautiful  way  ;  — 

That  those  wearing  raiment  which  flames 
With  glory,  —  who  endlessly  look 

In  beauty,  unwrinkled,  are  names 

Written  down  in  the  Lambs  blessed  book 


80 


That  strings  tremble  there  to  the  touch, 
Delicious,  and  thrilling,  and  deep;  — 

The  music  they  utter  is  such 
As  maketh  full  happiness  weep. 

They  say  there  shall  never  be  curse, 
For  the  throne  of  the  Holy  is  there  ; 

Once  entered  those  portals,  for  us 
No  longer  is  sin  or  despair. 

'Tis  wondrous  !  —  'tis  great  to  the  soul  ! 

Yet  the  jewel  that  crowneth  the  place, 
And  preciousness  gives  to  the  whole, 

My  Lord  !  is  the  smile  of  thy  face. 


SUNDAY   SCHOOL   MISSIONARY 

He  traverses  the  fertile  fields 
Of  pleasant  Maryland  ; 
And  in  the  Old  Dominion 
Doth  the  missionary  stand. 
In  sunny  Carolina's 
Pine  and  cotton  ground, 
By  the  flooded  rice  plantation, 
The  journeyer  is  found. 
Along  the  fervid  plains 
Of  Georgia,  not  delaying, 
Among  the  growth  of  canes 
Of  Alabama,  straying. 


81 


And  onward,  onward  goeth  he, 
Unwearied  in  his  way, 
Till  hoarsely  thunders  on  his  ear 
The  surging  Florida. 

He  climbs  the  Alleghany's  side, 

And  seeth  from  its  crown 

Ohios  ever  busy  tide 

To  ocean  sweeping  down. 

He  tempts  the  waters  —  on  he  hies, 

A  transitory  guest  — 

And  open  to  his  joyous  eyes 

The  splendors  of  the  West. 

By  vineyards  and  by  villages, 

By  island  groups  that  gem 

The  river,  by  the  wooded  slopes  — 

He  stayeth  not  for  them. 

Nor  pauseth  he  at  Grave  creek, 

Nor  measureth  the  mound, — 

There  are  dead  beyond  that  ousrht  to  live, 

And  lost  that  must  be  found  ! 

Nor  minds  he  Marietta's  sheen, 
Nor  Blannerhasset's  isle  ; 
Nor  where,  confessedly  a  queen, 
Doth  Cincinnati  smile. 
Kentucky  sees  the  traveller, 
And  in  her  settlements 
He  speaketh,  as  he  journeyeth, 
Of  glorious  intents. 
6 


82 

And  Indiana  hears  him  ; 
Anon,  his  cheerful  voice 
Breaks  on  the  flowery  prairies 
Of  distant  Illinois. 
Upon  him  vast  Missouri 
Bursts  like  a  virgin  world  ; 
And  gorgeous  Louisiana, 
Where  commerce  is  unfurled. 

And  wherefore  from  Atlantic  comes 

The  traveller,  and  whence 

The  errand  that  he  must  impart, 

Before  he  goeth  hence  ? 

Why  is  the  Southron's  country  trod 

By  him  who  needeth  rest  ? 

Why  seeks  that  zealous  man  of  God 

The  valley  of  the  West? 

From  Alleghany  to  the  sea, 

From  ocean  to  the  lake  — 

From  where  its  solemn  echoes 

Niagara  doth  wake  — 

To  pour  the  sunlight  of  the  sky 

Upon  the  uncultured  wild. 

To  show  the  love  that  God  on  high 

Hath  for  the  little  child! 

Where  nods  the  giant  sycamore, 
Where  grows  the  wild  papaw, 
To  rear  the  floweret  that  from  Heaven 
Its  nutriment  shall  draw. 


83 

To  stud  the  boundless  prairie 

With  trees  of  Lebanon, 

To  pierce  the  noble  forest  depths 

With  glances  of  the  Sun  ;  — 

To  speak  of  Jordan's  healing 

Where  Oregon  doth  rise  — 

Of  Calvary,  where  the  rocky  hills 

Are  towering  to  the  skies. 

Where'er  a  blade  of  grass  is  seen, 

Where'er  a  river  flows, 

To  bless  that  waiting  heritage 

With  Sharon's  living  rose. 


DIRGE 

FOR    THE    THIRTY    THOUSAND    SLAIN    THE    PAST    YEAR    BY 

INTEMPERANCE. 

I  stood  amid  the  place  of  graves, 
Where  hillocks,  thick  as  combing  waves, 

Were  clustered  far  around. 
Death  held  dominion  ;  here  his  reign 
Was  absolute,  o'er  victims  slain, 

Imprisoned  in  the  ground. 

In  sorrow's  contemplative  mood 

I  scanned  the  mingled  multitude, 

Whose  sepulchres  were  new. 


84 


One  year  ago  they  stood  with  men, 
And  length  of  days  they  reckoned  then, 
Who  now  were  hid  from  view. 

And  yet  from  these  —  what  fearful  fall 
Was  theirs  !  none  cared  to  lift  the  pall 

That  deep  oblivion  spread. 
For  them  no  tears  of  fond  regret 
Had  midnight's  pillow  often  wet, 

Nor  sigh  called  from  the  dead. 

Here  was  the  aged  father  laid, 
And  by  his  dust  the  sleeping  maid  ; 

The  husband,  wife,  were  here. 
The  manly  youth,  his  parents'  pride, 
The  bridegroom,  and  the  peerless  bride, 

The  foul  worm's  dainty  cheer. 

Here  lay  the  poor  man,  and  his  niche, 
Hard  by,  filled  up  the  rotting  rich, 

Regardless  of  his  state  ; 
Of  station  high,  of  low  degree, 
The  abject  slave,  the  haughty  free, 

Corruption  for  their  mate. 

The  orator  of  splendid  name, 

The  chief  who  taught  the  foe  his  fame, 

The  giant,  godlike  mind, — 
The  noble,  generous,  and  sincere, 
Those  prompt  with  pity's  holy  tear, 

The  polished  and  refined. 


85 


Whence  came  theij  ?    From  once  happy  homes, 
From  cottages,  from  lordly  domes, 

From  fireside  bliss  and  care  ; 
From  courts  of  justice,  chambers  trod 
By  senators  ;  yea,  angry  God  ! 

From  thine  own  house  of  prayer  ! 

Who  sleic  them  ?     Not  night's  pestilence. 
That  comes  and  goes,  men  know  not  whence, 

Nor  arrow  at  noonday  : 
They  fell  not  in  the  glorious  field, 
With  right  to  nerve  and  Heaven  to  shield, 

When  freedom  called  away. 

They  died  not  as  the  righteous  die, 
When  angels,  pluming  from  the  sky, 

With  sonors  unloose  life's  chain. 
By  curst  Inteviperance  found  they  hell, 
And  Ignominy  pealed  the  knell 

Of  thirtv  thousand  slain.  1637. 


THE   CONGREGATIONAL    CHURCH, 
PHILADELPHIA. 

I'm  glad  that  at  length  the  materials  appearing, 
Prepared  for  the  builder,  and  piled  in  our  street, 

Proclaim  that  the  pious,  unwearied,  are  rearing 
A  dome  where  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims  may  meet  ; 


86 


A  place  where  the  cares  which  the  week  sets  in  motion, 
The  bustle  of  business,  the  world  and  its  dreams, 

May  fade  in  the  nobler  pursuits  of  devotion, 

When  the  Sabbath  of  rest  heaven's  antepast  seems. 

I'm  glad,  that,  with  hallowed  monition,  a  spire 

Will  rise  from  these  precincts,  and  touchingly  tell 
That  here  men  may  come  and  learn  destinies  higher 

Than  earth's,  at  the  call  of  the  "  church-going  bell.'' 
That  here  is  appointed  the  ark's  holy  station  ; 

And  down  to  posterity,  still  on  this  ground 
Made  sacred  alone  by  the  Dove's  consecration, 

Will  manna  at  morning  and  evening  be  found. 

I'm  glad,  for  the  bliss  that  in  boyhood  I  tasted, 

I  hope  in  this  edifice  yet  to  renew ; 
When  up  to  the  meeting-house  duly  I  hasted, 

And  sat  with  the  rest  in  the  family  pew ; 
And  listened  with  reverence,  and  made  my  endeavor 

To  fasten  on  memory  the  chapter  and  text ; 
And  watched  the  good  minister,  though  I  could  never 

The  argument  scan  that  my  reason  perplexed. 

I'm  glad,  for  remembrance  yet  lingers  around  him, 

The  man  of  three-score,  whom  sincerely  I  thought 
Unrivalled  ;  —  the  ties  to  his  people  that  bound  him, 

I  knew  nor  by  meanness  nor  flattery  were  bought. 
And  years  as  they  passed,  more  his  goodness  revealing, 

Endeared  him  yet  more  to  the  hearts  he  had  won ; 
Refreshing  e'en  now  to  the  soul's  languid  feeling, 

Are  thoughts  of  that  warrior  whose  conflict  is  done  ! 


87 


I'm  glad,  for  though  he  has  his  pilgrimage  ended, 

And  many  about  him  in  vigor  and  bloom, 
And  most  of  the  aged,  with  him  have  descended 

To  final  repose,  and  are  lodged  in  the  tomb, 
I  love  to  think  of  them ;  the  soothing  reflection 

Of  days  long  departed,  to  me  has  no  dread  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  retrace  them,  nor  is  there  dejection 

In  thoughts  of  old  scenes,  old  delights,  and  the  dead. 

And  proudly  a  son  of  New  England  will  cherish 

The  customs  which  absence  but  serves  to  endear  ; 
He  may  measure  earth's  kingdoms,  but  never  shall 
perish 

The  smile  of  his  childhood,  or  infancy's  tear  ! 
And,  therefore,  I'm  glad  that  my  fond  recollection 

May  here  be  excited  to  look  on  the  past ; 
This  house,  with  its  ritual,  will  call  up  affection 

For  much  that  was  pleasant,  too  pleasant  to  last. 

I'm  glad,  for  I  know  that  the  heart  of  the  ranger 

These  walls  will  remind  of  the  home  of  his  love, 
As  here  in  his  worship  he  joins  with  the  stranger, 

In  the  way  of  his  fathers,  now  gathered  above. 
And  here  the  sojourner,  with  sweeter  emotion, 

Will  take  of  the  hope  that  religion  inspires, 
As  mingles  unchecked  in  the  tide  of  devotion, 

A  spiritual  thought  of  the  land  of  his  sires. 

I'm  glad,  for  unvexed  by  disquiet  that's  reigning 
So  sadly,  where  strife,  most  of  all,  ought  to  cease, 

Here  a  church  may  be  banded,  intent  upon  gaining 
Recruits  to  the  flag  of  the  Captain  of  Peace. 


And  ever  may  concord,  the  bond  of  the  Spirit, 
In  one  join  its  members,  thus  truly  to  live  ; 

As  sons  and  as  daughters,  each  bosom  inherit 

The  peace,  passing  knowledge,  He  only  can  give  ! 

I'm  glad,  for  I  hope  that  to  ages  will  flourish 

Within  this  enclosure,  the  plants  of  the  Lord  ; 
And  grace  from  his  treasury  like  showers  will  nourish 

The  trees  that  are  full  of  the  sap  of  the  word. 
And  here  would  I  hope  that  the  principles  tested 

So  long  in  old  Plymouth  —  so  fitted  to  mock 
The  assaultings  of  error  —  may  thrive  unmolested, 

Our  pride,  too,  as  theirs,  who  first  stepped  on  the  rock. 

I*m  glad,  for  a  watchman  they've  called  to  this  tower, 

From  the  shrine  of  the  Stoddards  and  Edwards  he 
came, — 
Whose  message  already  gives  token  of  power, 

Whose  zeal  is  of  pure  evangelical  flame. 
And  long  may  this  lamp  of  the  fresh  oil  be  lighted, 

Fed  richly  by  unction  that  cometh  from  high  ; 
And  burn  on  this  pathway,where  thousands,benighted, 

Shall  gaze,  and  in  penitence  turn  to  the  sky. 

I'm  glad,  then,  at  length  the  materials  appearing, 

Prepared  for  the  builder,  and  piled  in  our  street, 
Proclaim  that  the  pious,  unwearied,  are  rearing 

A  dome  where  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims  may  meet. 
Oh  !  Thou  who  hast  laid,  to  the  shame  of  the  scorner, 

In  Zion,  foundations  —  who  only  art  skilled 
To  plan  thine  own  glory  —  the  keystone  and  corner, 

To  Thee,  blessed  Trinity  !  only  they  build. 


so 


ROBERT   RAIKES,  IN  THE   SUBURBS 
OF    GLOUCESTER. 

"  It  was  his  custom  to  visit  in  person  the  families  of  the  poor, 
and  to  persuade  the  parents  to  feel  interested  in  the  well-being  of 
their  children  ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  persuaded  the  children 
to  come  to  the  Sunday  school." 

And  who  is  he  that's  seeking;, 

With  look  and  language  mild, 
To  heal  the  heart  that's  breaking, 

And  glad  the  vagrant  child  ? 
He  searches  lane  and  alley,  — 

The  mean  and  dark  abode, — 
From  Satan's  hosts  to  rally 

The  conscripts  due  to  God. 

With  words  of  kindly  greeting, 

Warm  from  an  honest  heart, 
He's  ignorance  entreating 

In  knowledge  to  have  part. 
With  charity  unfailing, 

He  patiently  doth  take 
Rebuke  and  sinful  railing, 

For  Christ  the  Shepherd's  sake. 

He  wins  from  vicious  mothers 

The  children  of  neglect; 
The  sisters  and  the  brothers 

From  households  sadly  wrecked. 


90 

And  these,  the  truth  impressing, 
Beneath  his  gentle  rule, 

Have  called  on  him  a  blessing, 
Who  formed  the  Sunday  school. 

I'd  rather  my  life's  story 

Should  have  such  episode, 
Than  all  the  gorgeous  glory 

Napoleon's  history  showed. 
For  when  no  more  war's  banner 

With  shouting  is  unfurled, 
Those  children's  sweet  hosanna 

May  shake  the  upper  world. 


THE   ANGER   OF  MOSES. 

With  angry  blow  he  smote  the  rock, 

The  obedient  waters  freely  ran, — 
Refreshing  to  the  herd  and  flock, 

Delicious  to  the  lip  of  man. 
He  smote  it  twice,  "  And  Israel  !  " 

He  muttered  thus  in  scorning  then- 
"  Must  we  bid  cool  sweet  waters  well 

From  rocks  for  ye,  rebellious  men  ! 

Heaven  hears,  and  for  this  single  sin, 
Its  high  displeasure  waxeth  hot ; 

The  fruitful  land  he  thought  to  win, 
He  may  behold,  but  enter  not. 


91 


Oh,  God,  if  now  the  wanderer  found 
For  his  one  error  doom  like  this, 

Who  of  our  race  could  feel  the  ground 
Secure,  of  hope  for  Canaan's  bliss  ! 


THE   FLAG. 

On  seeing  the  Bethel  Flag,  sent  to  the  American  Chapel  at 
Havre,  by  the  ladies  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

We  send  the  blazoned  dove  and  ark, 

For  foreign  winds  to  kiss  — 

To  her  who  in  our  fortunes  dark, 

Gave  us  the  fleur-de-lis  ; 

Which  streamed  above  the  artillery's  roar, 

And  the  roll  of  the  warlike  drum  :  — 

That  symbol  speaks  of  strife  no  more, 

That  martial  strain  is  dumb. 

Not  mindless  of  the  debt  we  owe,  — 
Who  shall  such  claim  forget  ?  — 
We  would  our  choicest  boon  bestow 
On  the  land  of  loved  Fayette ! 
No  gold  or  gauds  the  gift  enhance 
Which  comes  on  zephyr's  wings  ; 
Our  simple  guerdon  bears  to  France 
Word  from  the  King  of  kings. 


92 


We'll  not  forget,  while  memory  holds 

Its  place,  her  prowess,  nor 

How  proudly  waved  the  Bourbon  folds 

Above  the  fields  of  war. 

But  oh,  this  banner  tells  of  fame 

Earth's  pennons  cannot  win, — 

Of  victory,  in  Immanuel's  name, 

O'er  helmed  hosts  of  sin. 

How  glorious  those  old  hills  of  pride 
That  lift  their  tops  in  green, 
Where  Orleans'  lilies,  side  by  side, 
With  freedom's  stars  were  seen  ! 
But  how  much  dearer  to  the  mind, 
Thoughts  which  these  waken  now 
Of  peace  and  pardon,  star-entwined, 
That  beam  from  Calvary's  brow  ! 

How  dazzling  was  that  eagle's  flight 
From  Notre-dame  to  Rome, 
Which  blasted  nations  with  its  light 
And  sat  at  last  in  doom  ! 
But  this  fair  type  that  hath  the  dove 
Of  gentle  peace  unfurled, 
Doth  stir  ambition  far  above 
The  conquest  of  a  world. 

Then  go  !  —  the  flag  Religion  sends, — 
And  designate  the  dome 
Of  worship,  where  the  sailor  bends 
To  Him  who  had  no  home  ;  — 


93 

Who  often  taught  within  the  ship, 
Deemed  stricken  and  unblest  — 
The  lofty  mandate  of  whose  lip 
Awed  once  wild  seas  to  rest. 

Not  only  on  the  Gallic  coasts, 
Or  Loire,  or  winding  Seine, — 
Not  only  o'er  her  naval  hosts 
Or  troops  of  her  terrene  — 
But  let  each  ocean,  river,  bay, 
Each  vale  and  mountain  crag 
Of  Europe  —  yes,  of  earth,  display, 
Oh,  God  !  thy  victor  flag. 


BLESSING  THE   BATTLE. 

Father,  I  call  on  thee  ! 

Clouds  of  the  cannon  smoke  around  me  are  wreathing  ; 

Guider  of  battles,  I  call  on  Thee  ! 

Korner's  Prayer  during  Fight. 

It  may  be  that  the  weal  of  nations, 

Their  honor  scorned,  or  questioned  right, 

Require,  indeed,  no  lesser  umpire 
To  arbitrate,  than  ruthless  fight. 

It  may  be  that  the  ringing  trumpet, 
And  piercing  fife,  and  sullen  drum, 

And  garments  rolled  in  blood,  and  murmurs, 
Discordant,  of  the  battle's  hum  ;  — 


94 


Shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  the  dying, 
The  wreck  of  limb  and  waste  of  life, 

The  fury  of  devouring  carnage, 
And  all  the  circumstance  of  strife, 

Are  necessary  to  the  order 

And  comfort  of  this  world  of  ours, 

Which  has  no  sweet  without  a  bitter, 
Nor  without  thorns  possesses  flowers. 

And  yet  when  brothers  murder  brothers, 
To  ask  God's  blessing  on  the  deed  — 

And  crave  his  grace  where  onward  slaughter 
Leaves  living  hearts  behind  to  bleed, 

Is  urging  far  the  holy  mockery,  — 
Is  acting  farce  to  mercy's  view  : 

I  may  be  wrong,  for  Honor's  something, — 
Man  on  a  death-bed  !  what  think  you  f 


MECHANICS'  TEMPERANCE  HYMN 

Shall  the  bone  and  muscle  Heaven 
Lent  us,  shall  subduing  skill 

To  an  enemy  be  given  ? 

Shall  the  red  wine  triumph  still  ? 


95 


Each  of  us,  around  whose  dwelling 

Labor's  ample  blessings  flow, 
Feels  his  manly  bosom  swelling 

With  indignant  answer,  No  ! 

Shall  the  freedom  falchions  bought  us,  — 

When  our  injured  land  rose  up, 
Which  to  cherish,  Time  has  taught  us, 

Be  surrendered  to  the  cup  ? 
We —  God  bless  them  !   love  the  story 

Of  our  fathers  and  the  foe, 
And  we  answer,  by  their  glory, 

And  the  boon  they  left  us,  No  ! 

Raging  drink  !  thou'lt  not  enslave  us ; 

Sparkling  bowl  !  thou  now  art  dim  ; 
Angel  Temperance  stoops  to  save  us 

From  the  death  within  thy  brim. 
Save  us !     Yes,  though  we  were  spell  bound, 

Fixed  in  very  sight  of  wo, 
Yet  The  Pledge  shall  free  the  hell  bound  :  - 

Will  we  wear  those  shackles  ?     No. 

From  the  flood's  o'erwhelming  power, 

We  unto  this  ark  have  fled  ; 
Whence  we  gaze,  in  safety's  hour, 

On  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Now,  of  God,  earth's  sons  and  daughters  — 

As  on  high  he  sets  his  bow  — 
Ask,  if  shall  return  those  waters  ? 

And  Jehovah  answers,  No  ! 


96 


THE    BRIDE   OF   THE   CANTICLES 

Who  seeks  her  Lord  in  glorious  guise, 

Unparalleled  in  grace  — 
Love  beaming  from  her  wondrous  eyes, 

And  beauty  from  her  face  ? 
With  whom  all  similes  must  die, 

All  power  of  language  faint, 
Whose  charms,  with  pencil  from  the  sky, 

'Twere  sacrilege  to  paint  ? 

Why  droops  her  head  in  anguish  thus  ? 

Whence  those  delicious  tears  ? 
As  if  an  angel  showed  to  us 

How  angel  grief  appears. 
What  accents  murmur  like  a  dream 

Of  music,  from  her  lips  ? 
As  when  in  sorrow's  saddest  theme, 

His  soul  the  minstrel  dips. 

*Tis  she  —  the  Saviour's  purchased  Bride  j 

On  whom  earth's  light  is  dim  — 
For  whom  heaven's  brilliance  has  no  pride, 

Reflected  not  by  Him  ! 
She  bows  her  in  her  lonely  grief; 

Shall  she  make  suit  in  vain  ? 
Come,  Thou  !  of  every  joy  the  chief, 

And  take  thy  Bride  again. 


97 


TO   A   YOUNG  LADY   WHO   WAS 
BAPTIZED   IN  INFANCY. 

The  seal  of  the  covenant,  given 

On  your  forehead,  for  ever  will  tell  — 
A  star  in  the  brightness  of  heaven, 

Or  spark  in  the  glimm'ring  of  hell, — 
That  you  were  in  infancy  laid, 

A  bud  in  its  tenderest  hour, 
On  His  bosom,  who  kindly  has  said 

That  dearer  is  such  than  the  flower ; 
And  that  you  volition  had  here, — 

A  mortal  cast  out  in  your  blood,  — 
To  rise  to  Infinity's  sphere, 

A  worm,  yet  a  daughter  of  God, 
Or  fall  to  a  depth  of  despair 

Which  angels  undone  never  knew : 
To  one  of  these  portions  you  are 

Inheritor,  What  will  you  do  ? 

The  rainbow  that  rests  on  the  cloud, 

When  the  wearied  out  tempest  would  sleep, 
A  sign  that  God  never  will  shroud 

Earth  again  in  the  waves  of  the  deep  — 
Was  not,  to  the  patriarch  Noah, 

Surer  test  of  unchangeable  word, 
Than  is  this,  that  His  own,  evermore, 

Are  safe  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  ;  — 
7 


For  the  seal  on  your  forehead,  the  love 

Of  Jesus  as  surely  doth  show, 
As  Mercy's,  when  woven  above, 

Is  the  fading  and  beautiful  bow. 
This  fades  not  !  — it  brightly  shall  be 

Immortal  memento  to  you 
Of  grace,  if  from  peril  you  flee, 

Or  ruin  —  say,  What  will  you  do  ? 


TO  THOMAS   MOORE,  ESQ. 

Mix  me,  child,  a  cup  divine. 

Crystal  water,  ruby  wine  ; 

Here,  upon  this  flowing  bowl, 

I  surrender  all  my  soul  !  — Moore's  Anacreon. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Since  this  rhapsody  of  thine  ; 
Men,  to  reason  brought,  adore 

Other  Deity  than  wine  : 
None  will  madly  pledge  the  soul 
Now,  upon  the  flowing  bowl. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Drinking  hard  is  not  genteel  — 
Since  'tis  found  this  inner  core 

Of  the  heart  is  made  to  feel : 


99 

Where  the  revel  once  had  grace, 
Wife  and  children  now  have  place. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Men,  of  gaudy  vice  afraid, 
Count,  as  something  worse  than  bore, 

Paphian  boy  and  Bacchante  maid  ; 
Or  the  butterfly  that  sips 
Sparkling  cups  and  rosy  lips. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Doubtful  song  has  had  its  day  ; 
If  you  give  us  Grecian  lore, 

Leave  Anacreon  out,  we  pray. 
Purge  your  book  and  cleanse  your  heart, 
Ere  you  from  the  stage  depart. 


SMYRNA." 

To  Smyrna's  angel  Jesus  said 

That  she  should  sit  awhile  in  dust, — 

Be  tried,  cast  down,  yet  from  the  dead 
Restored  by  Him  who  conquered  first. 

And  silent  centuries  have  slept 

Since  she,  beneath  the  Moslem's  power, 
In  darkness  and  in  shame  has  wept :  — 

Now  dawns  at  length  the  promised  hour. 

*  Revelation  ii    x. 


100 

The  promised  hour  !  —  devoted  men,* 
Whose  eager  feet  are  swift  to  go  — 

Shall  faith  with  us  be  languid,  when 
Her  eagle  vision  fires  ye  ?     No  ! 

We  well  believe,  that  as  ye  toil 
Where  trials  kindled,  sore  and  sharp, 

In  yon  Levant,  and  tread  the  soil 
That  drank  the  blood  of  Polycarp ; 

And  journey  where  anointed  Paul 
With  kindred  errand,  gladly  trod, 

Obedient  to  the  heavenly  call, 
And  chosen  also  unto  God ; 

That  He  will  shield  you  !     Yea,  invite, 
When  past  earth's  scornings  and  renown 

Where  Polycarp  is  robed  in  light, 

And  Paul  in  meekness  wears  the  crown. 


THEY  SAY  THE  GOBLET'S  CROWNED 
WITH   FLOWERS. 

They  say  the  goblet's  crowned  with  flowers, 
And  round  its  brim  do  brightly  shine, 

Like  gems,  remembered  joys  and  hours, 
The  treasures  of  immortal  wine  ;  — 

*  Missionaries  to  Smyrna. 


101 

We  know  the  cup  is  wreathed  with  plants 
More  deadly  than  the  Upas  tree  ; 

Its  richest  recollection  haunts 
The  soul  with  all  that's  misery. 

They  say  the  draught  has  potent  spell 

To  wean  the  thought  from  ills  away. 
And  raise  the  drooping  one  to  dwell 

Where  dreamy  night  is  changed  to  day. 
We  deem  the  wretch  may  never  know 

The  meaning  of  unmixed  despair, 
Till,  tempted  by  his  direst  foe, 

He  seeks  the  cup  and  finds  it  there. 

Some  vow  in  unextinguished  hate, 

With  Alcohol  no  terms  to  hold  ;  — 
From  all  that  can  intoxicate  !  " 

We  write  upon  our  banner's  fold  ; 
For  we,  the  sons,  have  marshalled  strong 

On  fields  that  wear  our  fathers'  name  ; 
Their  glorious  dust  gives  back  the  song 

Once  more,  of  freedom  and  of  fame. 

Nor  marches  in  our  ranks  the  slave 

That  dares  his  heritage  to  stain  ; 
A'ot  one  to  clank  above  the  grave 

Of  tyranny,  a  sensual  chain. 
Oh,  no  !  — did  round  it  pleasant  flowers 

Of  wooing  tints  and  fragrance  twine, 
We  are  the  free,  and  'tis  not  ours 

In  bonds  to  tarry  at  the  wine. 


102 


PATIENT  BECAUSE   ETERNAL 

Yea,  thou  forbearest,  Lord, 
Thou  renderest  not  reward 

Due  to  ray  sin. 
Thou  knowest  all  my  heart, 
Yet  with  me  patient  art, 

Me,  vile  within  ! 

Though  irritable  these 

My  passions  are,  —  like  seas 

Raging  aloud, — 
Tempests  that  mock  control, 
Vexing  my  weary  soul, 

Yet  am  I  proud. 

Yea,  proud  —  though  of  a  day 
That's  vanishing  away : 

Lord,  I  would  learn 
Meekness  of  thee,  and  bear 
Whate'er  thou  send'st  of  care, 

Nor  trials  spurn. 

Rebelliously  doth  flesh 
Involve  me  in  the  mesh 
Of  hurtful  strife. 

*  St.  Augustine. 


103 

Within  my  nature  dwell 
The  sparks  that  kindle  hell ; 
Help,  for  my  life  ! 

Like  touchwood,  I  the  flame 
Do  catch.     Lord,  'tis  with  shame 

My  shame  I  own. 
Bathe  me  anew  in  blood 
That  gushes,  in  rich  flood, 

Fast  from  thy  throne. 

Thou  wast !  Thou  art !  wilt  be  ! 

Vouchsafe  to  lesson  me 

To  bear  thy  will. 
From  open  foes,  false  friends, 
And  all  thy  love  intends, 

Submissive  still. 

Even  as  thy  blessed  Son, 
The  meekly  suffering  One, 

The  Deity; 
Patient,  when  woke  the  sword, 
From  whom  fell  never  word 

Vindictively. 

Who  did  not  inward  fret 
When  sorely  him  beset 

The  powers  infernal : 
Most  patiently  who  cried, 
Most  patiently  who  died, 

Because  Eternal ! 


104 


APOSTROPHE 


TO    THE    FELLOW    THAT    INHUMANLY    SHOT    THE    FIRST    BIRD    OF 
SPRING    IN    NEW    HAVEN. — 1838. 

Who  art  thou,  caitiff!  that  with  borrowed  gun 
And  stolen  powder,  aimed  thy  felon  shot, 
In  cruelty's  mere  wantonness,  at  one, 
Much  thy  superior,  that  had  harmed  thee  not  ? 

Art  thou  not  some  most  miserable  bore  — 
No  freshman,  but  an  old  experienced  cheat? 
Thou  canst  not  senior  be,  or  sophomore  — 
Perhaps  a  tailor  out  of  Chapel  street  ? 

No  !  for  a  tailor  is  an  honest  man  ; 

But  thou  art  nothing  that  can  be  of  use  ; 

A  heartless  sinner  against  nature's  plan, 

Who  ne'er  designed  such  an  unfeathered  goose. 

Diana's  temple  at  old  Ephesus, 
Was  burnt  once  by  a  fool  that  wanted  fame  ; 
But  thou,  whose  deed  of  cruelty  men  curse, 
More  knave  than  fool,  concealest  thy  foul  name. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  only  wish  that  ghost 
Of  murdered  swallow,  or  poor  bob-a-link, 
May  perch  at  midnight  on  thy  scant  bedpost 
And  see  a  coward  'neath  the  blanket  slink. 


105 


And  that  whene'er  for  music  thou  dost  sigh, 
Instead  of  bird's,  a  termagant's  shrill  note 
Thou'lt  hear,  and  when  thou  wouldst  devour  duck  pie, 
A  piece  of  bone  might  tarry  in  thy  throat. 


COMMUNION   HYMN. 

Behold  his  pallid  face,  his  heavy  frown, 
And  what  a  throng  of  thieves  him  mocking  stand  ! 
Come  forth,  ye  empyrean  troops  !  come  forth, 
Preserve  this  sacred  hlood  that  earth  adorns, 
Gather  those  liquid  roses  off  his  thorns. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  1585. 

To  see,  my  Lord,  thy  body  thus 

In  ruins,  is  a  fearful  thing  ; 
And  yet  it  bore  away  the  curse 

From  sin,  and  drew  the  Spoiler's  sting. 
These  fragments  of  thy  bruised  flesh 

Are  sweet  as  breath  of  morning's  bloom, — 
Like  eastern  spices,  that,  afresh, 

Do,  broken,  yield  their  best  perfume. 

To  drink  thy  blood,  so  freely  spilt, 

Methinks  is  awful,  strange  delight,  — 
And  yet  each  drop  effaces  guilt, 

Its  currents  wash  my  crimson  white. 
As  new  in  vintage  drank,  the  wine 

Lies  choicest  on  the  palate,  so 
This,  tasted,  while  I  press  the  vine, 

Doth  depth  and  life  and  richness  show. 


106 

To  manifest,  till  thou  shalt  come, 

Thy  dreadful  death  by  type  so  frail, 
Is  wondrous,  —  yet,  till  gathered  home, 

Thy  church  to  do  it,  will  not  fail. 
While  dark  neglect  wraps  realms  and  kings, 

How  live  in  light,  years  cannot  dim, 
Memorials  of  most  precious  things  — 

The  bread  and  wine  and  simple  hymn  ! 


NOBILITY. 

During  the  delivery  of  the  medals  at  the  Franklin  school,  one 
of  the  youthful  candidates,  on  receiving  this  symbol  of  approba- 
tion, overcome  by  his  emotion,  burst  into  tears. 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  this  noble  lad 

Hath  something  great  within  him.     This  full  tide 
That  flows  so  freely,  tokens  that  a  spring 

Of  generous  feeling  wells  up  in  his  breast. 
And  these  are  precious  tears  !  —  a  bosom  glad  — 

A  heart  alive  to  just  ambition's  pride  — 
A  spirit,  that  in  eager  strife  will  fling 

Away  all  obstacles,  are  here  confest. 
Go  on  !  —  the  path  is  open,  and  the  same 

In  which  trod  Franklin  and  our  Washington  ! 
What  hinders,  that  in  future  day  thy  name 

Is  with  theirs  named  —  undying  honors  won  — 
And  thou,  a  parent's  triumph,  a  republic's  joy, 
Who  now,  the  modest  victor,  art  a  Boston  boy  ! 


107 


"NIPPED   I'   THE   BUD.'' 

i. 
Our  little  cousin  died,  and  when  such  die 
Verse  doth  embalm  them  ;  wealth  of  imagery 
Is  clustered,  to  show  forth  their  perfect  bliss 
In  that  high  world  which  has  no  taint  of  this  ; 
And  they  are  likened  to  the  cherubim  — 
Their  infant  pipes  tuned  to  the  mighty  hymn 
Whose  sound  is  that  of  waters,  or  a  germ 
Of  floweret,  men  deem  such,  which  the  foul  worm 
In  secret  preyed  on  —  and  it  withered  —  died, — 
Only  to  live  again,  and  bloom  in  pride 
With  plants  of  pleasant  hue  and  smell,  where  trod 
Never  the  spoiler,  yea,  with  amaranths  of  God. 

ii. 
Our  cousin  died.     SufHceth  it  to  say 
That  if  beyond  the  illimitable  way, 
Where  helplessness  lifts  not  beseeching  eye, 
Imploring  succor,  —  where  the  innocent  sigh 
Of  childhood,  and  its  frequent  tear  are  not, — 
If  there  are  gathered  infants,  she,  we  wot, 
Is  with  them  ;  and  to-day,  while  we  in  sadness 
Dwell  on  her  fond  remembrance,  she  in  gladness 
Is  casting  at  His  feet  the  harp  and  crown, 
Who  calls  such  little  ones,  and  bends  no  frown 
On  children,  but  doth  willingly  prepare  [there. 

Room  in  his  heart  for  such.     Abey  !  we  leave  thee 


108 


DECAY 


Oxe  day  in  merry  June,  I,  then  a  lad, 

Strolled  forth  with  a  companion  —  one  who  had 

Strange  curiosity,  that  sometimes  led 

His  footsteps  to  the  mansions  of  the  dead  ; 

And  he  the  way  directed  thither.     Soon 

We  stumbled  on  the  grave-stones  that  in  noon 

Glared  scorchingly.     Anon,  along  the  grass 

In  thoughtlessness  we  passed  and  did  repass, — 

Reading  quaint  rhymes  ;  and  sometimes,  too,  we  knelt, 

Closely  to  search  how  epitaphs  were  spelt, 

Trying  in  cherub's  stony  face  to  scan 

Some  likeness,  or  of  angel  or  of  man. 

Till,  presently,  we  chanced  upon  a  tomb, 

Whose  rusty  bolt  had  been  forced  backward  :  —  room 

Wanted  for  some  new  tenant.     Cheerful  day 

Looked  on  its  sullen  chamber  :  sunbeams  lay, 

Unwonted,  on  the  floor,  and  glanced  along 

On  coffins,  ranged  in  undistinguished  throng. 

I  was  but  wary  then,  about  all  things 

Connected  with  the  dead  :  the  secret  springs 

That  move  imagination,  I  nor  knew 

Nor  cared  about ;  but  as  religion,  true, 

Held  all  the  stories  which  do  appertain 

To  spirit- worlds,  nor  had  such  learned  in  vain ; 

And  therefore,  tremblingly,  I  stole  a  glance 

At  the  dread  cavern's  secrets.     Not  so  he, 

My  comrade,  who  with  jesting,  carelessly 


109 


Groped  down  the  steps,  and  rudely  raised  a  lid, 
That  from  the  eye  Decay's  sad  doings  hid. 

I  never  may  forget  what  then  I  saw. 
Years  have  passed  since,  but,  true  to  memory's  law, 
That  spectacle  is  fresh  to  memory  now, 
As  when  I  bent  o'er  that  sepulchre's  brow. 
I  see  her  still  !  how  painfully  !  —  a  woman,  young 
She  seemed,  who  lay  there.     As  if  she  had  flung 
But  lately,  her  tired  limbs  along  that  bed  ;  — 
Pressing  its  pillow,  easily,  her  head 
Did  seem  reclining.     Yet  methought  sweet  sleep 
It  was  not  like  ;  —  but  a  repose  more  deep, 
That  stirred  not,  when  the  hungry  reptile  left 
His  slime  upon  her  cheeks.     Ay,  when  he  reft 
His  hourly  meal  from  lips  that  chid  him  not  ! 
Suffice  it  that  I,  shuddering,  left  the  spot, 
With  thoughts  which  time  has  but  confirmed,  that  we 
Should  render  all  due  rites  that  decency, 
Love  and  religion  ask,  to  those  who  die  ; 
But  never,  the  tomb's  mysteries  to  descry, 
Should  we  with  curiosity  explore 
The  place  of  the  departed.     Buried,  then, 
Oh,  let  their  dust  be  sacred  from  the  ken 
Of  human  eye  !     Not  tomb  of  Pere-la-Chaise, 
Mount  Auburn,  Laurel  Hill,  with  sculpture  gay, 
Or  gayer  flowers,  to  me  hath  any  charm  ;  — 
'Tis  but  a  tomb.     Give  me,  for  slumber,  calm, 
The  quiet  grave,  where  dust,  once  hid,  may  lie 
Secure  from  vulgar  handling  ;  where  the  eye 
Of  love  is  satisfied,  if  on  the  sod 
It  rests,  of  him  whose  spirit  is  with  God. 


110 


JOHN  ELIOT,  OF  ROXBURY.   Obit.  1690. 

"  Such  priest  as  Chaucer  sang  in  fervent  lays, 
Such  as  the  heaven  taught  skill  of  Herbert  drew." 

There  are,  who  leaving  house  and  lands  and  home, 
Take  up  the  exile's  lot,  and  far  hence  go 
Unto  the  Gentiles,  winning  them  from  wo  ; 

And  sweetly  teaching  such  as  wildly  roam, 

Stedfast  to  be  in  Christ.     Their  temple  dome 
None  other  than  what  woods  and  skies  bestow. 
Foremost  of  these,  Apostle  !  thee  we  know  ;  — 

And  when  at  judgment  to  award  do  come 
The  self-denying  servants  of  the  King, 

Thou,  faithful  with  the  faithful,  wilt  be  seen. 
And  for  thy  jewels  wilt,  triumphant,  bring  — 

To  which  the  starry  gems  of  heaven  are  mean  — 
The  Indian,  by  the  Spirit  rendered  free, 
Through  Truth  translated,  taught,  and  lived  by  thee. 


NAMES    OF   CHRIST. 

Jesus  of  Bethlehem,  some  delight  to  name 
My  gracious  Master,  and  the  word  doth  claim 
Sweet  thoughts  of  innocence  and  gentle  youth, 
And  helplessness  of  Him,  the  Life  and  Truth. 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Galilean, 
Despised  of  men,  thus  titled  of  men's  spleen, 


Ill 


Yet  style  delighted  in  by  humble  hearts  ;  — 
Which  of  these  pleaseth  most  ?  —  The  early  parts 
Of  his  great  tragedy  have  interest, 
Yet  that  which  endeth,  noblest  is,  and  best. 
Bethlehem  and  Nazareth  cannot  else  but  fail 
Tokening  the  blood  that  doth  with  God  prevail ; 
And  therefore,  other  choosing,  fondly,  I 
Know  him  and  love,  Jesus  of  Calvary. 


WHITEFIELD. 

On  seeing  his  remains  in  their  resting  place,  at  Xewburyport, 
Massachusetts,  Sept.  11,  1837. 

And    this    was  Whitefield  ! — this,  the   dust   now 
blending 

With  kindred  dust,  that  wrapt  his  soul  of  fire, — 
Which,  from  the  mantle  freed,  is  still  ascending 

Through  regions  of  far  glory,  holier,  higher. 

Oh,  as  I  gaze  here  with  a  solemn  joy 

And  awful  reverence,  in  which  shares  Decay, 

Who,  this  fair  frame  reluctant  to  destroy, 
Yields  it  not  yet  to  doom  which  all  obey,  — 

How  follows  thought  his  flight,  at  Love's  command, 
From  hemispheres  in  sin,  to  hemispheres, 
Warning  uncounted  multitudes  with  tears,  — 

Preaching  the  risen  Christ  on  sea  and  land, — 
And  now  those  angel  journeyings  above  ! 
Souls,  his  companions,  saved  by  such  unwearied 
love  ! 


112 


HARRIET   NEWELL. 

Stranger  !  that  in  this  Isle-of-France  doth  tarry, 
Seek  out  our  Harriet's  solitary  grave, 

Marked  by  the  evergreen  ;  so  mayest  thou  carry 
Hence,  wholesome  thought,  returning  o'er  the  wave , 

For  this  is  she,  whose  death  hath  given  sweet  life 

To  thousands.     Yea,  whose  pangs  of  mortal  strife 
Have  yielded  to  the  pagan  precious  bliss. 

This  island  is  her  monument ;  —  it  doth  belong 
To  Christendom.     Lo,  every  one  in  this 
Loved  soil  hath  portion,  that  in  Christ  hath  part. 

Though  dear  to  early  romance,  by  the  song 
Of  simple  Indian  loves,  told  to  the  heart 

In  charming  story  —  not  thy  power,  St.  Pierre,* 

Endeared  it,  as  her  patient  griefs  and  death  endear. 


THE   BANDS   OF   PRAYER. 

Men  meet  as  strangers,  and  as  strangers  part, 
In  pleasure,  or  in  mysteries  of  the  mart 

Engaged.     In  politics  they  mix,  and  deem 
In  all,  their  comrades  cold,  and  separate, 

Each  in  the  other  owning  no  esteem. 

*Bernardine  St.  Pierre,  the  scene  of  whose  "Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia" is  laid  in  the  Isle-of-Frauce. 


113 


The  world,  indeed,  is  but  a  barren  state  ! 
The  plants  of  kindliness,  exotic  there, 

Grow  languidly  and  perish.     Yet  we  see 
Revealed  from  heaven,  though  not  in  heaven  known,  — 
For  songs,  and  not  requests  are  rife  before  the  throne, — 
A  tie  that  binds  Christ's  brotherhood.     They  share, 

Herein  initiated  —  though  they  be 

Strangers,  yet  thus  well  known  —  the  willing  knee, 
And  heart  they  bind  to  heart,  in  fellowship  of  Prayer. 


THOMAS    SHEPARD. 

"  That  gratious,  sweete,  and  soule-ravishing  minister,  in  whose 
soule  the  Lord  shed  abroad  his  love  so  abundantly,  that  thou- 
sands have  cause  to  blesse  God  for  him,  even  at  this  very  day, 
who  are  the  sealeof  his  ministrey,  and  hee  a  man  of  a  thousand, 
indued  with  abundance  of  true  saving  knowledge  for  himselfe 
and  others  ;  founder  of  the  Congregational  Church  of  Christ  in 
Cambridge,  died  August  25,  1649,  and  was  honourably  buried 
there,  at  Cambridge  in  New  England." 

Shepard  —  a  worthy  of  the  olden  time, 

Skilled  in  the  heavenly  craft,  and  well  inclined 
To  serve  his  Lord  with  substance,  body,  mind  — 
Passed  from  Old  England  to  this  virgin  clime, 
Where  he  might  freely  breathe  the  breath  of  life. 
Yea,  left  behind  the  regions  vexed  with  strife, 
To  plant  in  peace  the  nursery  that  should  rear 
Younglings  for  heaven,  —  Shepard  sojourned  here. 
8 


114 


And  this  fair  spot  he  fertilized  with  tears ; 
And  these  green  landscapes  witnessed  his  retreat 

For  wrestling  prayer.     Albeit,  two  hundred  years 
On  things  that  die  have  deeply  writ  their  name  — 
While  on  Mount  Zion  beauteous  are  his  feet  — 
Posterity  revives  and  cherishes  his  fame. 


THE   FORGOTTEN. 

"  Of  the  delusions  incident  to  ill  health,  old  age,  or  mental  ab- 
erration, many  are  wild  and  grotesque.  Of  the  former  kind  is  an 
instance  which  we  find  recorded,  that  led  to  the  self-destruction 
of  a  female  in  Silesia.  She  had  reached  the  age  of  one  hundred 
years.  All  her  family  having  successively  been  conveyed  to  the 
tomb,  she  labored  under  the  idea  that  God  had  forgotten  to  call 
her  out  of  the  world  !  " 

To  be,  and  not  to  be  !  to  live,  and  ne'er  to  die  ! 

How  terrible  an  endless  life  below  ! 
To  be  by  Heaven  forgotten,  while  roll  by 
Century  after  century  ;  and  when 
The  weary  sojourner  would  gladly  yield 
To  long  infirmity  and  fly  the  field, 
And  humbly  ask,  blest  boon,  to  perish  —  then 

To  hear  upon  his  hope,  stern  answer,  No  ! 
Friend  after  friend  to  see  departing,  deep 

Yawn  the  coy  grave  beneath,. but  not  for  him. 
Over  dead  friends  and  lovely  ones  to  weep  — 

The  beautiful,  the  young,  the  lithe  of  limb  — 
Yet  he  to  linger  still ;  yea,  watch  yon  sun 
Wax  old  and  die,  yet  live  —  the  sad  forgotten  one  ! 


115 


TEMPERANCE   SONG. 

Of  old,  Anacreon  woke  the  song 
In  praise  of  wine  ;  the  joyous  throng 
He  led,  and  with  seducing  strain 
Allured,  they  drank  and  drank  again. 
His  lyre  to  witching  measure  strung, 
The  poet  thus  of  pleasure  sung  : 
"  Within  this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
I  cradle  all  my  woes  to  sleep.*' 

In  latter  days,  the  Teian's  theme 

Was  still  the  same  —  the  drunkard's  dream. 

The  drunkard*s  waking  thoughts'  employ, 

Was  still  to  catch  the  flying  joy  ; 

In  social  mirth,  in  secret  hour, 

He  owned  the  tempter's  subtle  power, 

And  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 

Would  fain  have  cradled  care  to  sleep. 

Yet  praise  we  give  !  — it  could  not  last  ; 
The  red  cups  tyranny  is  past ; 
No  more  the  soul  of  sensual  song 
"  Expires  the  silver  harp  along  ;  " 
Exalted  man  shakes  off",  at  length, 
The  sordid  sin,  and  rallies  strength  ; 
For  in  the  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
He  sees  is  Virtue  lulled  to  sleep. 


116 

With  more  than  Bacchanalian  zest 
Our  lip  the  healthful  cup  has  pressed  ; 
The  chrysolite  itself  is  dim 
To  waters  sparkling  on  its  brim  ; 
No  ruined  joys  are  here,  no  child 
Of  beggary,  no  mother  wild  ; 
Such  woes  this  goblet,  rich  and  deep, 
Has  cradled  to  eternal  sleep. 


JAMES   IV.    13,   14. 

Go  to,  now,  ye  that  say,  To-day  or  to-morrow  we  will  go  into 
such  a  city,  and  continue  there  a  year,  and  buy  and  sell,  and  get 
gain  :  whereas  ye  know  not  what  shall  be  on  the  morrow  :  for 
what  is  your  life  ?  It  is  even  a  vapor,  that  appeareth  for  a  little 
time,  and  then  vanisheth  away. 

Hear  ye  now,  what  James,  the  Apostle  doth  say  : 
Go  to,  ye  presumptuous  !  who  boast  that  to-day 
Ye '11  toil,  or  to-morrow  will  seek  such  a  town, 
Such  a  city  of  wealth,  such  a  mart  of  renown, 
And  dwell  there  a  year,  buy  and  sell  and  get  gain. 
Hear  now  !  and  be  humble  —  your  schemings  are  vain  : 
He  that  sits  on  the  circle  of  heaven  doth  laugh 
At  hopes  sown  in  wind,  which  shall  pass  like  the  chaff. 
Poor  worms  !  ye  know  not  what  shall  be  on  the  mor- 
row, 
Or  riches  or  poverty,  pleasure  or  sorrow. 


117 


Unknowing —  to-day  in  possession  of  breath  — 

If  the  next  may  not  come  with  commission  of  death  : 

For  what  is  your  life  ?    "Tis  a  thin  vapor,  even. 

Now  here,  —  yet  a  moment  and  far  away  driven. 

The  dew  of  the  morning,  the  slenderest  flower. 

But  faintly  type  out  the  brief  stay  of  an  hour. 

As  a  post,  as  a  shuttle,  a  meteor,  a  dream, 

A  journey,  a  slumber,  a  race  doth  it  seem. 

Decay  hath  a  voice  and  the  tomb  hath  a  chime. 

Mournfully  telling,  a  shadow  is  Time  ; 

And  wasting  and  sickness  and  ruin  give  token 

At  the  cistern  the  pitcher  ere  long  shall  be  broken. 

And  what,  then,  is  man,  that  buildeth  on  his'h 

His  Babel  of  cobweb  to  rival  the  sky  : 

Oh,  what  is  this  boaster  of  arrogant  claim, 

The   thought    of   whose   nothingness  crimsons  with 

shame 
The  angels  that  gaze,  and  still  wonder  at  pride 
That  swells,  and  is  swept  like  a  mote  down  the  tide  ! 
Should  he  not  in  his  lowliness,  meekly  and  still, 
Rather  base  all  his  wishes  on  If  the  Lord  trill  f 
Feeling  his  poverty,  leanness  and  sin, 
Turn  to  the  Stronghold  from  weakness  within  : 
To  rise  up  betimes,  bread  of  carefulness  eat, 
To  walk  in  his  duty  with  diligent  feet, 
Yet  still  with  humility,  labor  and  plan, 
Devise  and  perform  all  is  seemly  in  man  ? 
Oh,  surely  his  path  is  the  easiest  trod, 
And  safest,  who  trustingly  stays  on  his  God. 
Surely  "tis  sweet  for  the  finite  to  own 
His  vision,  how  dim,  to  the  light  of  the  throne, — 


118 


How  puny  his  arm,  in  its  manliest  might, 
To  His  that  holds  worlds  up,  the  diamonds  of  night ! 
His  strength  how  like  feebleness,  wisdom  how  small, 
To  the  Lord  of  Creation,  the  Maker  of  all ! 


LAZARUS. 

Bethany  !  on  thy  site,  as  travellers  tell, 
Rude  and  forlorn,  the  warlike  Arabs  dwell  : 
Children  of  penury,  slaves  of  miscalled  fate, 
One  God,  their  God,  and  Allah  theirs,  as  great. 
Who  that  surveys  thy  miserable  state, 
Silent  and  dreary,  could  suppose  that  thou, 
Ruined  and  vile,  despised,  forgotten,  now, 
Wast  honored,  once,  with  presence  of  the  Blessed, 
Salvation's  Prince  —  the  world's  neglected  Guest? 
Who  could  suppose,  where  solitude  is  wed 
To  death,  that  life  came  springing  from  the  dead  — 
When  on  the  grave  was  light  of  victory  cast, 
And  he  restored,  who  had  its  portals  past  ? 
And  who  would  deem  domestic  bliss,  so  dear 
To  God,  earth's  choicest  flower,  was  cultured  here  i 
Bethany  !  name  that  eighteen  hundred  years 
Has  tribute  called  of  sweet,  delicious  tears  ! 
Bethany  !  name  at  which  glad  visions  come 
Of  friendship,  love,  and  sacred  charms  of  home  ! 
With  thee,  how  surely  rise  to  fancy's  view, 
Martha  and  Mary,  and  their  brother,  too  ! 


119 


Lazarus,  the  brother,  of  these  much  beloved, — 
And  more  —  disciple  Jesus  well  approved; 
Martha,  with  serving  cumbered  for  her  Lord ; 
Mary,  that  meekly  sat  to  hear  His  word. 
Blest  household  !  —  simple,  poor,  yet  free  from  sin, 
And  rich  beyond  compare,  with  Christ  within. 

Lazarus,  diseased,  has  sought  the  couch  of  pain  ; 
The  sisters  ask  for  Jesus  —  but  in  vain. 
To  do  his  work,  on  Jordan's  farther  side 
Is  He  whose  presence  could  this  sickness  chide. 
Fraternal  care  wings  thither  strong  appeal  — 
"  He  whom  thou  lovest  is  sick  :  Lord,  come  and  heal ! ' 
He  comes  not.     Surely  he  will  message  send 
That  shall  rebuke  disease,  and  save  his  friend. 
No  —  death  must  have  its  victim,  so  the  hour 
Of  man's  extreme,  may  show  that  God  hath  power. 

Lazarus  is  dead  !     Is  not  the  Saviour  here  ? 
Not  to  restore,  but  give  the  kindly  tear : 
Oh,  is  He  absent  ?  absent  ne'er  before 
From  low  abodes,  where  Sorrow  keeps  the  door. 
How  many  weary  hours  they've  looked  for  him, 
And  hearts  are  faint,  and  heavy  eyes  are  dim  ! 
Come,  mournful  music  !  soothe  the  weeper's  breast, 
That  pours  out  troubled  song  for  him  at  rest. 

Brother  !  thou  wast  our  youth's  delight, 
The  pleasant  stay  of  riper  years  ; 

Climbing  with  thee  life's  joyous  height, 
What  knew  we  of  a  vale  of  tears  ! 


120 

Thou  wast  the  branch  on  which,  in  weakness, 

We,  early  tendrils,  fondly  hung  ; 
Around  thy  glorious  strength,  in  meekness, 

Our  timid  woman's  love  was  flung. 

Brother  !  a  tie,  whose  mighty  power 

Death  breaks  not,  sweetly  held  us  three  — 
Not  that  we  each,  in  life's  first  hour, 

Drank  at  one  breast,  and  clasped  one  knee  : 
Stronger  than  this  —  the  silken  cord 

That  linked  our  souls  in  gentle  love, 
The  tie  that  bound  us  to  our  Lord 

So  firm  below,  fails  not  above. 

Brother  !  the  palm  at  morning  towers 

Its  stem  by  Jordan's  placid  stream, 
And  shows  its  crown  of  leaves  and  flowers, 

Bathed  in  the  burning  noonday's  beam  : 
At  eve,  the  sorrowing  maidens  see 

The  bruised  stem,  the  broken  bough  : 
Weeping  —  the  sad  beholders  we, — 

Prostrate  in  all  thy  beauty,  thou  ! 

The  Master's  come  !  —  Him  Martha  hastes  to  meet, 
And  falls  in  tears  of  anguish  at  his  feet. 
Why  was  her  earnest,  pious  suit  denied  ? 
11  Hadst  thou  been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died  ; 
Yet  even  now,  such  is  thy  power  with  God, 
He  can  return,  who  hath  death's  valley  trod  — 
He  shall  arise  in  Resurrection's  day." 
"  I  am,"  saith  Christ,  "  the  Resurrection  !  yea, 


121 


He  that  in  me  believeth,  were  he  dead, 

Yet  shall  he  live  !     Belie  vest  thou  what  I've  said  ?  " 

He  stands  beside  the  grave  ;  He,  the  grave's  King, 
Spoiler  of  hell,  can  spoil  Death's  lesser  sting. 
Yet  Jesus  wept :  —  what  rich  compassions  flow 
From  that  deep  fountain  sorrow  breaks  up  so  !  — 
The  stone  removed  —  to  Him,  by  whom  is  won 
Victory  alone,  in  praises  speaks  the  Son  ;  — 
That  God,  the  Father,  making  known  His  power, 
Should  raise  Sin's  numerous  slain  to  life  this  hour  : 
Then,  in  a  voice  at  which  Death,  trembling,  fled, 
"Lazarus  !  come  forth  !  "  he  cries.  He  that  was  dead 
Came  forth,  in  grave  clothes  clad,  and,  buoyant,  trod 
The  green  earth  —  telling  Christ  is  verv  God  ! 


THAT  SAD  SECOND  CHILDHOOD. 

I  have  wished  that  sad,  second  childhood  might  have  a  mother 
still,  to  lay  its  head  upon  her  lap.  —  Elia. 

Childhood,  its  little  grief 

May,  on  its  mother's  breast, 
Lay  it,  and  find  relief, 

Where  childish  cares  have  rest. 

But  what  for  Age  remains  ? 

Age,  —  with  neglect  and  gloom, — 
Where  may  it  hide  its  pains 

But  in  the  friendly  tomb  ? 


122 


FELLOWSHIP. 

On  Saturday,  30th  July,  I  landed  at  Liverpool  ;  on  Sabbath  at- 
tended service  in  Dr.  Raffles'  church  ;  on  Monday  visited  with 
him  several  of  his  members,  and  in  the  evening  attended  a  con- 
cert of  prayer,  where,  by  invitation,  I  addressed  the  meeting. 
There  was  much  feeling  —  many  wept  —  and  I  saw,  indeed,  that 
the  language  of  Canaan  is  every  where  the  same.  —  Notes  of  an 
American  Traveller. 

It  is  the  same  !  wherever  men 

That  love  the  Saviour  meet, 
Heart  leaps  to  kindred  heart,  and  then 

The  interchange  is  sweet ; 
Each  holds  with  each  communion  high, 

The  sacred  kindlings  run, 
And  with  imperishable  tie, 

Their  souls  are  knit  in  one. 

One  language  speak  the  saints  below, 

They  speak  but  one  above, — 
How  readily  affections  flow, 

When  that  which  prompts  is  love  ! 
For  Love's  the  same  in  every  zone 

Where  minds,  thus  taught,  adore  — 
In  our  America  'tis  known, 

And  on  the  English  shore. 

They  speak  this  common  language  well, 

Who  own  a  different  speech  ; 
This  fellowship  has  signs  that  tell 

What  this  alone  doth  teach  ; 


123 

And  he  that's  skilled  in  Canaan's  tongue, 

Where'er  his  foot  has  trod, 
Has  found  with  his,  some  accent  strung 

In  unison  to  God. 

The  toiler  in  his  city  walls, 

The  journeyer  on  the  sea, 
The  dweller  of  imperial  halls, 

And  he  of  low  degree  — 
Man,  in  his  northern  world  of  snow, 

Who  herds  from  man  apart,  — 
In  India's  vales,  where  soft  winds  blow, 

Or  Afric's  mighty  heart, — 

The  foreigner  and  he  at  home, 

The  stranger  by  the  way, 
Whoe'er  has  enterprize  to  roam, 

Or  who  content  to  stay  ;  — 
If  of  this  holy  brotherhood, 

Each  bosom  beats  the  same, — 
And  each  one  in  the  Son  of  God 

Has  part,  that  wears  his  name. 

Where'er  thou  stray'st  or  tarryest,  know  ! 

If  cast  with  Him  thy  lot, 
Thou  mayst  not  in  life's  passage  go 

Where  kindred  mind  is  not ;  — 
Where  is  not  found  some  follower  still, 

His  witness  in  each  clime  — 
Men  keeping  cov'nant,  whom  He  will 

Keep  when  sealed  up  is  time. 


124 


THE    SILENT   STREET. 

In  Boston  is  a  street,  about  a  rod 

From  her  famed  Common,  by  men  seldom  trod  ; 

Never  by  the  mere  lounger,  or  the  fair, 

To  kill  off  time,  or  sport  attractions  there. 

'Tis  shunned  by  such  as  play  the  flutterer's  part 

In  folly's  sunshine  ; — by  the  wise  in  heart 

Its  thought  is  entertained.     Ranged  on  each  side 

Are  mansions,  not  of  opulence  or  pride, 

Of  structure  simple  ;  taste  was  not  invoked 

In  rearing  these.     Envy  itself,  provoked, 

Could  find  no  food  in  gorgeous  trappings  here. 

Yet  taste  is  wanting  not,  though  still  severe ; 

And  you  may  note,  in  marble,  o'er  the  door, 

Each  owner's  name.     Of  fame's  selectest  store 

Are  some  of  these.     The  wise,  the  good,  the  great  — 

And  he*  among  them,  whom  the  cares  of  state 

This  moment  occupy,  —  New  England's  son, — 

Confessedly,  who  has  her  suffrage  won, 

And  wears  it  too.     His  domicil,  though  fit 

For  use,  before  he  shall  inhabit  it, 

May  years  pass  on  !  — 

Here,  where  earth's  kindred  meet, 
And  friends  convene,  how  silent  is  the  street ! 
Each,  in  due  time,  takes  lodgings,  and  the  gate, 
Closed  sullenly  upon  him,  seems  to  wait, 

*  D— 1  W— b— r. 


125 


Patient,  yet  surely,  till  'tis  oped  again, 
And  one  more  swells  the  long  forgotten  train 
Of  those  who,  once  within  that  sombre  cell, 
Till  time  breaks  up,  in  solitude  shall  dwell. 

Two,\  lately,  'twas  my  lot  to  see,  and  they 
Were  here  to  take  possession.     In  array, 
Not  like  the  accustomed  bustle  that  attends, 
Methought,  the  change  of  habitation  ;  —  friends 
In  concourse  sad  were  with  them  ;  —  holy  rite, 
With  prayer  and  dirge,  was  ordered  ;  and  the  sight 
Of  these  new  tenants  was  unwonted,  such 
As  in  gay  life  we  see  not.     There  was  much 
Of  thought  intense  prevailing,  as  on  them, 
Mother  and  child,  men  looked.     A  very  gem 
Of  beauty  was  that  infant,  save,  its  cheeks 
Were  stilly  pale  ;  and  this  flower  of  three  weeks  — 
Folding  itself  in  its  sweet  bud,  as  'twere 
Shrinking  away  from  our  rough  winds  of  care  — 
Seemed  sleeping — 'twas  a  kind  and  quiet  sleep. 
Its  mother,  too  !  the  voice  of  friendship  said  — 
And  love  confirmed  —  that  grace  and  nature  shed 
Early,  on  her,  attraction.     She  was  one 
Not  formed  to  dazzle  in  the  garish  sun, 
But  loving  shade,  yet  not  inactive  shade. 
She  grew  and  bloomed,  and  now,  where  such  ne'er 
fade, 


t  The  departed  consort  and  infant  son  of  a  beloved  divine  in 
this  city,  who  were  interred  with  the  appropriate  and  affecting 
services  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church. 


126 


She  lives,  with  virtuous  names  not  born  to  die, 
And  her  bright  record  is  inscribed  on  high. 

And  is  she  here  ?  —  why  weep  these  ?  —  why,  by  light 
Of  sickly  taper,  to  this  house  of  night 
Comes  she  ?     They  pause,  I  notice,  and  delay 
The  journeyer's  entrance.     Grieving  friends  give  way, 
And  Ac,  who  with  that  partner  long  had  dwelt 
In  fairer  mansion,  by  her  side  has  knelt 
In  anguish  sore,  and  takes  the  last  fond  look. 
Oh,  God  !   'twas  the  heart's  agony  that  shook 
The  servant  then.     Will  he  not  tarry  too  ? 
Is  no  bed  decked  within,  for  love  so  true  ? 
Ah,  in  death's  undress  is  she  hither  brought ; 
Her  couch  is  damp,  her  chamber  cheerless  —  nought 
To  welcome  her  and  babe.     What  street  is  this, 
Whose  dwellers  thus  are  shorn  of  home's  sweet  bliss  ? 
And  to  the  world's  turmoil  and  daily  strife, 
The  business,  pleasure,  weal  and  wo  of  life 
Are  all  insensible  ?     A  willing  search 
Will  find  it  soon.     'Tis  under  St.  Paul's  Church. 


THE   DRUNKARD'S    DEATH 

I  stood  beside  his  dying  bed, 

His  clammy  hand  was  clasped  in  mine, 
And  if  there's  hope,  look  up,  I  said  ; 

He  dropt  a  tear,  but  made  no  sign. 


127 

I  asked  him  of  his  misspent  years, — 

He  had  but  reached  to  manhood's  prime,  — 

And  oh,  what  griefs,  and  guilt,  and  fears 
Trooped  where  he  stood  on  shores  of  time  '. 

For  he  to  drink  had  yielded  up 
His  intellect  and  noble  strength  ; 

And  now  the  demon  of  the  cup, 

Exulting,  claimed  his  prey  at  length. 

I  spake  then  of  the  broken  law, 
Of  O.ve  who  had  the  forfeit  paid, 

And  that  his  faith  might  strongly  draw 
On  Him,  the  Merciful,  for  aid. 

Renounce  thy  sins,  and  loathe  thy  life, 

So  wearily  to  folly  given  ; 
And  He  will  calm  thy  bosom's  strife, 

And  He  will  lift  thy  soul  to  heaven. 

He  cried,  "  What  shall  a  sinner  do  !  " 

He  greatly  wept  —  "  What  doom  is  mine  !  ' 

His  face  was  changed  ;   despair,  I  knew, 
Prevailed,  and  still  lie  made  no  sign. 

I  told  him  that  a  shoreless  sea 

Is  grace,  for  mortals  stained  with  sin  ; 

To  doubt  were  crime  —  and  safely  he, 
Defiled,  indeed,  might  venture  in. 


128 

I  knelt  in  prayer  —  if  ever  I 

Have  tasted  prayer's  prevailing  power, 
!Twas  when  my  supplicating  cry 

Appealed  for  pity  in  that  hour. 

I  prayed  that  he  might  see  how  pure 
The  law's  demand,  how  vile  his  guilt ; 

Oh,  mercy  !  must  this  soul  endure 

Its  pangs,  when  blood  for  souls  was  spilt  — 

This  gem  that  might  be  ever  bright 
Where  coronals  in  beauty  shine, 

Be  locked  in  depths,  whose  only  light 
Gleams  palely  from  the  wrath  divine  ! 

Rather  may  he,  new  born,  be  clad 

In  robes  by  Sovereign  Love  brought  down 

And  stand  where  angels  worship,  glad 
With  golden  harp  and  starry  crown. 

I  asked  again,  if  he  could  now 

Yield  all  to  Him  who  claims  the  whole  ; 
And  at  that  cross  where  men  must  bow 

Or  perish,  cast  his  trembling  soul  — 

And  on  this  bed  of  sorrow  say, 

"  Here,  Lord  !  to  be  for  ever  thine, 

A  lost  one  gives  himself  away  !  "  — 
He  died,  he  died,  and  made  no  sign  ! 


129 

THE   QUAKERESS. 

"  Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily." 

City  of  Penn  !  thy  streets 
Right-angled,  marble  banks,  mint,  heaving  domes, 
And  water-works,  and  Schuylkill,  yielding  sweets, 

And  pleasant  homes, 

And  sober  denizens, 
I  love.  —  Thy  merchants,  lawyers,  reckoned  wise  — 
And,  more  than  all,  thy  beauteous  citizens 

Who  own  bright  eyes, 

I  love  ;  —  confessedly 
As  fair  as  any  famous  Broadway  boasts, 
Or  belles  of  Washington,  though  fair  they  be, 

Or  Boston  toasts. 

As  stately  Junos,  seem 
Thy  queenly  females,  who,  on  Chesnut  street, 
Display,  like  flitting  mockings  of  a  dream, 

Their  pretty  feet. 

How  charming  the  array 
They  make,  when  the  tired  wing  of  evening  droops 
How  dazzling,  when,  in  face  of  envious  day, 

They  pass  in  troops  ! 
9 


130 

Loveliest  of  short  or  tall, 
And  most  bewitching  in  her  modest  dress, 
Is  she,  who  wins  all  hearts,  above  them  all  — 

The  Quakeress. 

When  almost  blinded 
By  gorgeous  beauty,  on  the  promenade, 
How  soothing  'tis  to  meet  —  hast  thou  not  minded  ?  — 

A  Quaker  maid, 

In  her  becoming  dress, 
With  bonnet,  or  of  drab,  or  purest  white  : 
Fragrant  as  lily  of  the  wilderness, 

As  sweet  to  sight ! 

A  company  of  such 
I've  seen  in  spring  time,  where  thy  Arch  street  runs, 
Gathering  to  meeting.     They  resembled  much 

The  Shining  Ones 

Glittering  along  the  way 
In  crowds  :  —  This  simile  is  borrowed,  I 
Would  rather  liken  them  to  flowers  in  May, 

Early  and  shy.  — 

The  Quakeress  is  fair, 
And  all  adorned  in  her  simplicity; 
Candid  as  Heaven  made  her,  every  where 

Lovely  to  me. 


131 


And  yet  her  proper  throne 
Is  home  ;  —  there  shines  the  Quakeress. 
Good  sense,  good  humor,  kindness,  all  her  own, 

Are  there  to  bless. 

Oh,  were  her  guileless  speech, 
And  open  artlessness,  but  copied,  then 
Would  other  towns,  like  thee,  bland  lessons  teach, 

City  of  Penn  ! 


TO  THE  MONUMENT. 

Ho  !  granite  pile  on  Bunker's  sod, 

Why  standest  thou  unfinished  thus,  — ■ 

A  mockery  where  our  fathers  trod, 
A  Babel,  crumbling  'neath  the  curse? 

Ho  !  thou  that  men  began  to  build, 
Not  counting  first  the  painful  cost ; 

In  whom  the  proverb  is  fulfilled 
Of  care  and  cash  by  folly  lost ;  — 

I  mind  me  when  this  soil  for  thee 
Was  broken  by  the  eager  spade, 

That  day  the  son  of  liberty 

Thy  corner  stone  with  shoutings  laid, 


132 

He  said  that  on  the  martyrs'  bones 

Thy  soaring  shaft  should  proudly  stand, 

And  tell  forever  on  its  stones 
The  fame  and  story  of  our  land. 

Then  eloquence  was  here  —  the  throng 
Stood  breathless  on  this  sacred  hill, 

As  rose  to  God  the  noble  song, 
Expressive  of  a  people's  will. 

A  change  has  come  —  no  man  may  bind 
Thy  massy  blocks  on  hallowed  ground, 

Who  thinks  with  shame,  how  lofty  mind, 
In  firmer  grasp,  hath  Slavery  bound  ! 

This  scorpion  thought  keeps  back  the  gold 
Which  should,  to  plant  thy  top  stone,  pay, 

That  human  blood  and  bones  are  sold ; 

And  shouldst  thou  prate  of  freedom  ?     Nay 

A  hissing  only  wouldst  thou  be, 
A  by- word  of  our  country's  shame; 

And  every  syllable  on  thee 

Engraved,  would  falsehood  still  proclaim. 

Not  thus  defy  the  men  of  might 
Who  on  this  hill-top  glory  won  ; 

Not  thus  affront  the  pilgrim's  sight 
Upon  this  more  than  Marathon. 


133 

Yet  —  stand  thou  thus  !  a  tell-tale,  not 
Of  heroes  slumb'ring  at  thy  base  — 

But  of  the  fact  that  one  dear  spot 
Hypocrisy  shall  not  disgrace. 


SUNDAY. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  Time's  string, 

Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal,  glorious  King. —  The  Church. 

Sweet  Sabbath  !  gift  of  Heaven,  which  selfish  man 
Would  never  on  himself  have  thus  bestowed  ;  — 
A  green  spot  art  thou  in  the  dreary  road 

Of  life,  sojourning  ;  every  seventh  day  found. 

Where  we,  thought  gathered,  earth  withdrawn,  may 
scan 

The  overwhelming  glories  scattered  round 
The  universe  of  God.     Or,  called  by  bells, 
Drink,  in  his  temple,  where  it  freely  wTells, 

Water  of  Life  ;  such  as  the  woman  drew 

Never  by  old  Samaria,  but  which  knew 

The  heavenly  Teacher.     Me,  stript  of  my  pride, 

Show,  on  this  day,  as  here  I  waiting  lie, 

Panting  with  thirst,  on  this  parched,  waste,  way  side, 

The  path,  dear  Lord  !  to  Sabbath  streams  on  high. 


134 


THE   WIDOW. 

Do  not  the  tears  run  down  the  widow's  cheek  ?  and  is  not  her 
cry  against  him  that  causeth  the  fatherless  to  fall  ? —  Tke  Son  of 

birach. 

Man  !  who  pitiest  fellow  wo, 

Sighest  when  the  stricken  sigh, — 
In  whom  sweet  Compassion's  glow 

Stirs  the  soul  and  dims  the  eye, — 
Look  upon  the  Widow's  sadness  ; 
Bid  her  crushed  heart  leap  for  gladness- 
Woman  !  type  of  Mercy,  thou, 

Who  thyself  all  feeling  art, 
Wearing  pity  on  thy  brow, 

And  its  impulse  in  thy  heart, 
Hearken  to  the  Widow's  groan, 
Weep  for  her  that  weeps  alone. 

Youth  !  the  first  in  deeds  of  daring, 

Leaving  timid  age  behind, — 
Following  Fortune,  yet  uncaring 

If  she  slights  thee,  or  is  kind, — 
Stop  !  nor  proudly  scorn  her  lot 
Which  thou  understandest  not. 


135 

Maiden  !  in  thy  laughing  hour, 
Dreaming  not  of  future  ill,  — 

Yet  in  whom,  with  certain  power, 
Destiny  shall  work  its  will, — 

By  thy  hopes,  that  soon  must  die, 

Hear  the  Widow's  troubled  cry. 

Thou  !  who  sorrowedst  o'er  the  bier, 
Where  a  widow's  son  was  laid, 

At  the  gate  of  Nam,  —  hear  ! 

Look,  and  lend  thy  gracious  aid. 

God  !  the  counsel  came  from  Thee, 

"  Let  thy  Widows  trust  in  Me." 


THE   INCONSISTENT. 

Oh,  parent,  who  thy  watch  art  keeping, 
So  pleasing,  painful,  o'er  thy  boy, — 

Whose  vigilance  is  all  unsleeping 

That  he  may  prove,  indeed,  thy  joy  — 

Consider  !  while  thij  care  thou  deemest 
Enough,  at  times,  thy  hope  to  dim, 

A  cloud,  of  which  thou  little  dreamest, 
Comes  up  between  his  bliss  and  him. 


136 

While  he  imbibes  instruction  needed, 
And  Precept  seems  to  guide  the  way, 

Some  act  of  thine,  some  word,  unheeded, 
In  sad  Example,  leads  astray  ; 

In  all  the  influence  which  in  beauty 
Should  cluster  round  the  social  hearth, 

In  every  pleasure,  toil  and  duty 
Of  home,  the  dearest  spot  on  earth, 

With  one  hand  to  the  living  fountain 
Pointing,  where  he  may  enter  in ; 

And  with  the  other,  like  a  mountain, 
Piling  along  his  path  thy  sin  ! 

On  Inconsistency  that's  blazing 

Thus  falsely,  where  should  be  true  light, 
Thy  helpless,  ductile  offspring  gazing  — 

How  can  he  find  the  way  that's  right  ? 

Oh,  cruel  !  that  the  bosom  swelling 
With  ardor,  hope,  and  promise  fair, 

Should,  by  thy  folly,  be  the  dwelling 
Of  guilty  pain  and  keen  despair. 

Had  he  not  here  —  a  thoughtless  stranger, 
Unskilled  life's  thousand  snares  to  shun- 

Enough  of  soul-besetting  danger, 

That  thou  shouldst  see  thy  child  undone  i 


137 

Whose  fancy,  think'st  thou,  e'er  may  enter 

Its  depths,  or  analyze  the  cup 
Of  which  the  parent,  that  durst  venture 

His  children's  safety,  shall  drink  up  ! 

How  many  thus,  like  stars,  for  ever 
Have  set,  in  baleful  night  to  dwell, 

In  spite  of  Wisdom's  strong  endeavor, 
By  faithless  parents,  who  may  tell  ? 


THE    GAMBLERS  — A  Fact. 

'Twas  in  the  old  Cathedral,  at  midnight; 
Before  the  altar  burned  unwonted  light, 
Which  deepened  darkness  on  the  fretted  wall, 
Where  hung  appropriate  shadows,  like  a  pall. 
Within  the  chancel  sat  men,  void  of  shame, 
At  the  Communion  Table,  deep  in  game. 
Three  mocking  wretches  impiously  were 
Joined  in  the  sacrilege.     A  fourth  was  there  ! 
That  fourth,  a  ghastly  corpse,  which  had  that  day 
In  the  damp  vault  been  laid  with  kindred  clay, 
Now  dragged  by  these  blasphemers  from  its  bed 
To  help  at  cards.     Uncoffined,  the  grim  dead 
Sat  thus  in  chilling  silence,  while  their  noise 
Went  on ;   nor  heeded  their  infernal  joys. 


138 


SPEECH  OF   THE   EMPEROR  NICHO- 
LAS, OF   RUSSIA, 

TO    THE    MUNICIPAL    BODY    OF    WARSAW,    WHILE    ON    A    VISIT    TO 
THAT    CITY.* 

Gentlemen  ! 
That  you've  wished  to  address  us  we  very  well  know, 
Yet  what  you  would  utter  being  merely  so,  so, 
To  save  you  moreover  from  telling  a  lie, 
We  will  that  your  speech  you  put  quietly  by. 
Yes,  Gentlemen  !  though  we  repeat  it  with  pain, 
'Tis  to  spare  you  duplicity  foolish  and  vain. 
We  know  that  your  sentiments,  faithless  to  us, 
Unlike  your  pretences,  than  falsehood  are  worse. 
For  similar  mockery  with  you  was  the  mode, 
When  your  vile  Revolution  was  ripe  to  explode. 
And  now,  that  we  think  on't,  to  us  it  appears 
You  are  the  same  flatterers,  who,  five  and  eight  years 
Ago,  tickled  us  with  your  loyalty,  strong, 
When  your  honey-mouthed  talk  was  as  fulsome  as  long. 
The  same,  who  a  very  few  days  or  weeks  after, 
Broke  every  engagement  and  made  us  your  laughter. 
Ever  since  we  have  lent  you  our  gracious  protection, 
You've  spurned  at  our  kindness  and  called  it  subjec- 
tion ; 
E'en  the  great  Alexander,  with  cognomen  "  Good," 
Who  cared  for  you  more  than  an  emperor  should, 

*  Fide  the  German  newspapers  of  183G. 


139 


Who  heaped  on  you  benefits,  base  as  you  are, 
Beyond  his  own  subjects,  who  made  you  his  care, — 
Yea,  though  of  sedition  ye  stirred  up  the  coals, 
Who  would  fain  have  exalted  you,  highest  of  Poles,  — 
The  good  Alexander  —  with  sorrow  we  say  it  — 
You  treated  most  basely  ;  the  knout  ought  to  pay  it. 
Although  your  position  was  noble  enough, 
Yet  with  it  you've  wickedly  been  in  a  huff; 
We  talk  to  you  plainly,  and  deem  we  are  right, 
On  these,  our  relations,  to  scatter  some  light ; 
And  on  what  to  depend,  that  you  really  may  know, 
In  kindness,  we,  Nicholas,  counsel  you  so  ; 
And  ask  honest  action,  not  language  of  art : 
Repentance,  the  priests  say,  should  come  from  the 

heart. 
We  speak  without  anger,  you  see  that  we  are 
As  calm  and  as  cool  as  becomes  a  great  Czar  ; 
No  rancor,  no  malice,  ye  treacherous  elves  ! 
And  good  we  will  do  you,  in  spite  of  yourselves. 
The  Marshal,  —  you  see  him,  — though  you  may  not 

think  it. 
Fulfils  our  intention,  and  that  you  shan't  blink  it, 
He  watches  you  closely,  your  welfare  in  view, 
And  Warsaw  holds  none  more  observant  and  true. 
[The  members  of  the  Deputation  here  bow  to  the  Mar- 
shal.] 
Well,  Gentlemen  !  well  !  —  we  are  glad,  any  how, 
That  to  him,  worthy  man,  you  obsequiously  bow; 
But  what  signify,  we  would  ask,  these  salutes, 
Or  words  dipt  in  oil,  if  in  deeds  you  are  brutes  ! 


140 


The  first  of  all  duties  you  owe,  it  is  clear, 

Is  fealty  to  us,  who  am  Autocrat  here  ; 

To  serve  us  sincerely,  nor  deem  it  too  hard, 

That  Liberty's  dream  you  forever  discard. 

The  alternative  here,  you  must  instantly  choose  — 

Our  government,  mild  though  it  be,  to  refuse, 

And  seek  for  lost  Poland  her  ancient  renown, — 

Or  quietly  toil  for  the  good  of  our  crown. 

Yet,  mark  us  !  if  you,  now  on  jeopardy's  brink, 

Of  distinct  nationality  dare  but  to  think, 

You  will  utterly  fail  in  the  scheme  you  intend, 

And  ruin  draw  down  on  yourselves  in  the  end. 

We  have  reared  up  this  citadel  —  we  !  who  declare 

If  a  traitorous  Pole  of  his  head  wags  a  hair, 

Its  cannon  in  thunders  against  ye  shall  roar, 

And  Warsaw  shall  fall,  —  to  be  Warsaw  no  more  ! 

Indeed,  it  is  painful  to  talk  to  you  thus  : 

To  a  Sovereign  'tis  always  so  —  yet  if  a  fuss 

You  make  about  Liberty,  we,  for  your  good, 

Must  talk  and  must  act  as  an  Autocrat  should  ; 

'Tis  for  you  to  deserve  it,  that  over  the  past, 

The  veil  of  oblivion  for  ever  is  cast ; 

By  humble  acknowledgment,  only,  you'll  gain  it, 

By  future  obedience,  only,  obtain  it. 

We  know  that  abroad,  from  the  pestilent  West, 

Come  the  writings,  like  frogs,  that  our  empire  infest ; 

And  men  who  are  drunken  with  liberty,  send 

Those  missives  which  evil  can  only  portend. 

With  such  a  frontier,  e'en  a  Russian  police 

Can  ne'er  of  this  evil  prevent  the  increase  ; 


141 


And  yet  its  effects  you  may  easily  crush 

And  the  whisperings  of  treason  may  readily  hush, 

If  you  train  up  your  children  to  bow  at  our  nod, 

And  worship  their  Sovereign  before  any  God. 

You  see,  while  those  writings  shake  Europe,  in  fact, 

Our  Russia  !  immovable,  strong  and  intact  ! 

Believe  us,  though  some  may  have  deemed  it  a  curse, 

'Tis  a  blessing  indeed,  to  be  really  a  Russ  ; 

And  of  governments  wielded  by  absolute  powers, 

What  a  privilege,  Poles  !   to  be  subject  to  ours. 


VIRGINIA  A.  D****. 

Hast  thou  never  seen, 

When  the  orb  of  day 

Lightens  with  his  sheen 

Dark  Niagara, 

How  his  glories  act 

On  the  foam,  and  show, 

O'er  the  cataract, 

Heaven's  beauteous  bow  ? 
She,  who  lately  plumed  for  flight,  seeking  rest  above, 
Saw  thus  over  Jordan's  tide,  arched,  the  bow  of  love. 

Hath,  at  eve,  thine  eye 
Watched  the  little  billow 
Rise  and  gleam  and  die, 
On  Atlantic's  pillow  — 


142 


When  it  seemed  to  thee 

Sighing  into  rest, 

Melting  peacefully 

Into  ocean's  breast  ? 
SAe,  as  kindly  in  repose,  sighed  away  her  breath, 
Peacefully  and  gently  thus,  blended  into  death. 

Saw'st  thou,  when,  in  light, 

Sabbath  glories  rose  ? 

She,  a  Sabbath,  bright, 

Saw,  yet  not  like  those. 

Longed  she  then  to  go, 

Rest  above,  to  spend  ? 

Yes  !  begun  below, 

Rest  that  ne'er  shall  end. 
Voices  heard  she,  loved  ones  saw,  sweetly  from  the  sky 
Beckoning  to  their  holy  home,  wooing  her  to  die. 

In  the  troublous  hour, 
In  life's  weary  doom, 
When  disease  hath  power, 
When  appears  the  tomb  — 
Where's  the  sovereign  arm, 
Strong  and  swift  to  save  ? 
What  can  chase  alarm, 
What  adorn  the  grave  ? 

She  could  answer,  He  was  there,  swift,  the  sufferer 
knew, 

He  that  through  the  grave  had  passed,  strong  to  bear 
her  through. 


143 


When  Niagara 

Lifts  his  bow  no  more, 

When  have  fled  away 

Ocean  and  the  shore,  — 

She  shall  live  again, 

Where  the  mortal  sigh 

Heaves  not,  and  where  pain, 

Yea,  and  Death  shall  die. 
She,  a  child,  a  seraph  now,  leans  on  Jesus'  breast, 
Oh,  for  wings  !  that  we  might  be,  sweet  one  !  thus  at 
rest. 


COMMON   ORIGIN   OF   RELIGION. 

"  Among  the  Greeks,  during  their  nocturnal  mysteries,  youth- 
ful virgins,  havin£  baskets  full  of  flowers,  with  serpents  in  them, 
ran  about  all  night,  calling  on  the  name  of  our  first  mother,  '  Era! 
Eva'.'  " 

For  as  I  passed  by  and  beheld  your  devotions,  I  found  an  altar 
with  this  inscription,  To  the  Unknown  God.  Whom,  therefore, 
ye  ignorantly  worship,  him  declare  I  unto  you.  —  Paul  on  .Mar 6 
Hill. 

By  Hebrew  wand'rers  taught  to  know, — 

Instructed  they  of  Heaven, — 
The  origin  of  human  wo, 

The  curse  so  early  given, — 
The  Greek  —  such  single  glimmering  shown  — 

Wove  truth  with  fabling  rite  : 
A  sunbeam,  flashing  from  the  throne 

Upon  his  p?gan  n;ght. 


144 

Yet  not  to  his  mythology- 
Was  sacred  lore  confined  — 

The  print  of  true  Religion,  we 
On  other  altars  find. 

Wherever  zeal  had  temples  built, 
To  crown  the  idol  hill, 

Where  flowers  were  laid,  or  blood  was  spilt, 
Were  seen  her  tokens  still. 

The  Druid  in  his  stony  cave, 

The  Egyptian  in  his  hall, 
He  to  his  Fetish  god  a  slave, 

And  he  in  Boodha's  thrall  — 
Each  brought  the  firstling  of  his  store  ; 

Each,  prest  by  sense  of  sin, 
Did,  darkly,  Deity  adore, 

For  dimmed  was  light  within. 

And  where  night  wrapped  the  heathen  shrines, 

His  fealty  to  "  The  Unknown  " 
The  pagan  wrote  in  living  lines 

Upon  his  altar  stone  ; 
To  God,  for  whom  misguided  men 

Through  ages  vainly  felt, 
To  God,  unseen,  yet  worshipped,  when 

In  ignorance  they  knelt. 

Oh,  that  which  points  above  the  stars 

Wherever  man  has  trod  — 
To  Him  who  shuts  night,  and  unbars 

The  morn,  the  very  God, — 


145 

And  spells  in  beams  above  the  sun 

The  name  of  Deity  — 
Is  spirit,  which  can  never  shun 

Its  immortality. 

If  Christendom,  made  rich  indeed 

With  knowledge  of  the  Cross, 
To  use  it  wisely  gives  not  heed, 

How  measureless  her  loss  ! 
If  stripes  are  his,  who  never  saw 

Unfolded  Mercy's  plan, 
How  sorely  visiteth  the  law 

Enlightened,  guilty  man  ! 


THE   TEMPLE. 

He  sought  Moriah's  walls, 

That  heaved  to  heaven  their  pride  ; 
The  Temple,  like  whose  glorious  halls, 

The  world  had  nought  beside. 

He  entered  —  'twas  his  own  ! 

Of  nations  called  the  house  of  prayer: 
But  money  changers  filled  his  throne, 

And  traffic's  foot  was  there. 
10 


146 

Woke,  at  his  watchful  nod, 

Thunders  for  the  offence  ? 
No  —  with  a  word  the  Son  of  God 

Cast  the  defilers  thence  : 

The  merchant  from  his  courts, 

The  doves,  the  changers,  and  their  gold ; 
And  silenced  the  confused  reports 

Of  men,  that  bought  and  sold. 

Thus  near  the  Saviour  drew 

This  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

My  heart,  that  sheltered,  still  untrue, 
Folly's  tumultuous  host. 

The  Master's  once  it  was, 

But  others  had  possession  found  ; 

And  where  He  should  have  given  laws, 
His  enemy  was  crowned. 

With  a  reproving  frown, 

To  see  his  altar  dimmed  by  sin, — 
The  gates  of  beauty  broken  down, 

The  world  come  trooping  in,  — 

He,  with  a  scourge  of  cords, 

Drove  every  idol  hence. 
'Twas  sharp  —  yet  kind  ;  my  gracious  Lord' 

This  temple  has  been  since. 


147 

And  dearer  is  it  deemed 

Than  altars  where  the  Hebrew  knelt  ; 
Since  Mercy  hath  upon  it  beamed, 

And  God  within  it  dwelt. 


I   AM   FOR   PEACE 


Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn.  —  Robert  Burns. 


What's  in  the  warlike  waving  plume, 
And  in  the  gorgeous  standard's  fold 
That  beckon  on  to  envied  doom 
Or  glorious  victory,  the  bold  ; 
What's  in  the  brazen  trumpet's  bray 
And  in  the  spirit  stirring  fife 
And  thundering  drum,  that  call  away 
The  generous  to  the  deadly  strife  ? 

What  magic's  in  old  Caesar's  name, 
Or  his  who  died  at  Babylon  — 
Or  his,  the  chief  of  modern  fame, 
Who  thrones,  like  counters,  lost  and  won 
Yea,  what's  in  all  the  high  renown 
That  e'er  contending  legions  gained  ;. 
The  greenest  wreath,  the  proudest  crown, 
That  ever  poet  knew  or  feigned, 


148 

Compared  with  all  the  certain  guilt 
On  murder,  stamped  by  righteous  law, 
The  countless  tears,  the  rivers  spilt 
Of  blood,  the  crimes  and  woes  of  war  ? 
Compared  with  that  impetuous  tide 
Of  sin,  which  flows  in  dreadful  wrath  — 
The  hatred,  scorn  and  poisonous  pride 
That  surely  follow  battle's  path  ? 

Oh,  why  should  nations,  lifted  up 
By  Christian  privilege,  prepare 
For  sister  realms  the  bitter  cup, 
Whose  dregs  are  sorrow  and  despair  ! 
At  empty  Honor's  larum  wake 
Force  that  for  Right  could  never  fail,  — 
For  fancied  insult,  vengeance  take, 
And  duel  on  a  larger  scale  ! 

Just  God  !  this  is  not  in  thy  plan  ; 
The  monstrous  dogma's  not  from  Thee, 
That  what  is  wrong  from  man  to  man, 
In  governments  may  venial  be. 
Thou  ever  dost  transgression  hate, 
In  highest,  as  in  humblest  place  ; 
Nor  will  its  penalty  abate 
From  parliament  or  populace. 

I  loathe  it  all  !  and  when  I  see 
Gay,  gladsome  warriors  trooping  by, 
With  glancing  steel,  and  bravery 
Of  trump  and  drum,  I  can  but  sigh, 


149 

That  men,  like  children,  ever  seem 
Still  pleased  and  flattered  with  a  straw, 
And  for  Fame's  splendid,  empty  dream, 
Will  court  the  crimes  and  curse  of  war  ! 


THE    SECOND   ARROW. 

I  saw  thee  faint,  the  hour  when  came 
The  arrow,  with  unerring  aim, 
To  pierce  thy  first-born  ;  yet  thy  God 
I  knew  could  heal,  though  sharp  the  rod. 
And  now,  when  scarcely  fourteen  days 
Have  passed,  the  second  arrow  slays 
The  last  survivor,  and  the  tomb 
Again  has  sunlight  on  its  gloom, 
To  show  where  with  the  newly  dead 
Another  child  may  lay  its  head. 

Thrice  has  such  message  at  my  door, 
In  by-gone  days,  been  told.     Ay,  more 
Than  this  —  four  precious  ones,  that  blest 
My  heart  and  home,  are  now  at  rest. 
I  know  what  'tis  long  nights  to  watch 
The  helpless  sufferer,  and  to  notch 
Each  hour  on  Sorrow's  tablet.     Yes, 
To  take  the  last  pure  breath,  and  kiss 
Away  death's  damp  from  lip  and  brow. 
To  meet  all  this,  and  meekly  bow, 
All  this,  and  own  His  "  will  be  done," 
Is  victory  —  yet  it  may  be  won. 


150 

Weep  freely  —  nature  asks  the  tear  — 
Weep,  as  keen  memory  brings  so  near 
The  thousand  nameless,  witching  charms 
Of  those  who  lately  filled  your  arms. 
Weep,  as  flit  by  thee  hopes  that  played 
On  life's  horizon,  when,  arrayed 
In  rainbow  tints,  thou  sawest  the  bow 
Of  promise  for  thy  loved  ones  glow. 
Yet  weep  resignedly  ;  each  grace 
Is  clustered  in  a  glorious  place. 
Yea,  weep  with  joy  !  those  cherubs  shine 
Where  all  is  real,  all  divine  ! 

For  thee  and  me,  we'll  softly  go 
The  remnant  of  life's  weal  or  wo, 
Content,  its  tears  and  trials  past, 
If  we  may  join  our  babes  at  last. 


THE   BIBLE   FORBIDDEN. 

The  Bible,  free  as  winds  of  heaven, 
This  age  to  all  the  world  has  given. 
To  all  the  Word  of  Life  ?     Yes  !  save 
The  hordes  that  wear  the  name  of  Slave, 
And  wear  his  bonds,  and  feel  the  rod ; 
For  this,  wilt  thou  not  judge,  oh,  God  ! 
Will  not  thy  vengeance  put  to  shame 
The  followers  of  the  equal  cross, 
Who  glory  in  the  Christian's  name, 
Yet  count  a  brothers  soul  as  dross  ? 


151 


APPEAL 

FROM    BIELE    COUNTRIES    TO    THE    AMERICAN    SUNDAY    SCHOOL 

UNION. 

Thirty  thousand  dollars  might  be  employed  at  this  moment,  in 
translating  and  putting  into  circulation  an  assortment  of  the  un- 
exceptionable, evangelical  and  attractive  books  of  the  American 
Sunday  School  Union,  among  thousands  of  readers  who  now  in- 
habit the  very  land  which  was  once  traversed  by  prophets,  apos- 
tles and  martyrs.  —  Rev.  Mr.  Brewer,  of  the  Smyrna  Mission. 

A  voice  to  thee  !  —  to  thee,  whose  noble  aim 

It  is  to  nurture  Childhood  for  the  skies  ;  — 

A  voice  from  the  Levant  !  it  strongly  cries 

For  instant  help  ;  —  the  lands  that  lie  in  shame 

Appeal  to  thee  in  the  Redeemer's  name. 

Favored  of  Institutions  !   whose  blest  root 

Strikes  deep,  —  whose  boughs  are  redolent  of  fruit, — 

Thou,  like  to  the  small  mustard  seed,  from  small 

Beginnings  sprang  :  —  silent,  yet  surely  grew 

Thy  stem  in  beauty  ;  —  now,  thou'rt  strong  and  tall, 

In  bloom  luxuriant,  and  fruitful  too. 

On  the  Atlantic  slope  thou  hast  caused  schools 

To  rise  by  thousands  ;  —  Alleghany  sees 

Thy  influence  far  beyond  him.     Knowledge  rules 

Where  solitude  once  triumphed; — humble  knees 

Are  bowed  on  flowery  prairies,  and  the  voice 

Of  young  hosannas  makes  the  West  rejoice. 


152 


To  the  fair  sunny  South  thy  heralds  go.  — 

The  sweetly  winning  books  that  simply  speak, 

In  useful  narrative,  of  weal  and  wo, 

Companions  of  the  young  throughout  the  week  — 

Thou  scatterest ;  —  the  harvest  who  can  know  ! 

Nor  to  these  shores  confined,  thy  light  hath  felt 

Dark  Hindostan.     Responsive  to  her  calls, 

Thy  page  hath  visited  the  Indian  halls. 

Hearts  thou  hast  moved  that  long  to  idols  knelt ; 

Thou  art  already  to  the  Brahmin  known  ; 

Thou  hast  already  reached  the  Rajah's  throne. 

Blest  labors  !  blest  reward  !     To  thee  is  given 

To  see,  most  nobly  prospering  in  thy  hands, 

God's  work,  —  small  faith  thus  shaming.     Yet  hath 

Heaven 
For  thee  more  fields,  and  larger ;  there  are  other  lands  ! 
Oh,  look  at  length,  upon  the  prophets'  soil, 
Where  martyrs  languished,  and  apostles  trod, — 
And  with  these  pages,  fruit  of  prayer  and  toil, 
Bless  climes  where  prayed,  and  toiled,  and  died  the 

Son  of  God  ! 


LINES   AT   LOWELL. 

I  praise  not  your  sweet  red  and  white, 

Or  hair  that  floats  in  graceful  curls, 
Or  eyes  that  flash  out  brilliant  light, 
Ye  Lowell  girls  ! 


153 

I  praise  the  charm  that  ye  possess  — 

Resistless  charm  of  woman's  face  — 
The  modesty  in  whose  impress 

Is  every  grace  ;  — 

The  lofty  wish  that  bids  ye  leave 

A  mother's  care  and  childhood's  soil, 
Your  fortunes  wisely  to  achieve 

By  virtuous  toil ;  — 

The  independent  mind  that  lifts 

Ye  far  above  life's  varying  whirls  — 
For  these  I  praise  you,  these  best  gifts, 

Ye  Lowell  girls  !       1837. 


THE   PRESSURE  — 1837. 

Let  those  who  are  suffering  by  the  present  commercial  em- 
barrassments, take  heed  that  they  do  not  resort  to  unsanctified 
sources  of  consolation. 

Oh,  seek  not  comfort  from  the  Wine, 

In  this  thy  bitter  grief; 
The  mantling  juices  of  the  vine 

Can  yield  thee  no  relief. 
Nor  seek,  in  thy  extreme  distress, 

Oblivion  from  the  bowl ; 
Thou  shalt  not  there  remember  less 

Thy  agony  of  soul. 


154 

Oh,  seek  not,  in  this  troublous  hour, 

The  Gambler's  cursed  den  ; 
For  once  within  his  baleful  power, 

And  farewell  virtue  then  ! 
Nor  to  the  unholy,  feverish  heat, 

That  gathers  there,  incline, 
If  thou  wouldst  not  the  wild  hot  beat 

Of  a  maddened  pulse  were  thine. 

Oh,  look  not  in  gay  Pleasure's  lair 

In  such  a  time  as  this  ; 
The  blaze,  the  beauty,  song,  are  there, 

But  not  consoling  bliss. 
Nor  in  the  ball-room's  witching  wiles, 

Nor  place  of  glee  have  part ; 
For  there  thine  artificial  smiles 

Would  veil  a  broken  heart. 

Thy  hopes  are  dark  —  across  the  land 

God  hath  his  shadow  thrown  — 
Yet  who'll  rebuke  the  righteous  hand 

That  touches  but  its  own  ? 
From  Him  come  judgments  on  our  path, 

From  Him  this  grievous  blow  ; 
Yet  rains  not  from  his  stores  of  wrath 

Man's  self-inflicted  wo. 

Submit ! — there's  sweetness  in  the  thought 

That  He  in  love  doth  chide  ; 
For  avarice  He  this  ill  hath  wrought, 

Perhaps  for  foolish  pride. 


155 

Yet  this,  and  more  that  Heaven  can  bring, 

'Twere  easier  to  bear, 
Than  that  which  from  remorse  doth  spring- 

The  soul's  unmixed  despair  ! 


HYMN   FOR  THE   TIMES. 

Thy  blessing,  gracious  Providence, 

If  thou  to  man  reveal,  — 
The  manufacturer  plies  his  art, 

And  commerce  speeds  the  wheel. 
On  skill  to  plan,  and  toil  to  frame, 

If  thou  thy  smile  bestow, 
The  vein  is  reached,  and  streams  of  gold 

Run  in  perpetual  flow. 

How  rise  the  airy  structures,  then  ! 

What  wings  doth  bustle  wear  ! 
We  strive  as  if  this  world  alone 

Were  worth  a  world  of  care. 
To  heaven-exalted  enterprise 

Our  fealty  we  give,  — 
For  wealth,  and  what  it  brings,  life  seems 

Worthy  alone  to  live. 

But  when  thy  frown  appears,  the  tide 
Rolls  back  with  angry  power  ; 

And  then,  oh  !   God,  what  dreams  of  pride, 
Years  built,  die  in  an  hour  ! 


156 

How  strangely  vanish  yellow  heaps, 

Which  painful  toil  has  raised  ! 
How  frightful  is  the  labyrinth,  then, 

Where  wisdom's  self  is  mazed  ! 

If  in  the  mighty  gulf  is  whelmed 

One  who  has  bowed  to  pelf, 
Or  one  whose  narrow  purposes 

Have  centered  in  himself, 
By  this  sharp  trial  show  to  him  — 

Perhaps  a  lesson  new  — 
That  he  alone  lives  up  to  Man, 

Who  lives  for  others  too. 

And  if  Thy  finger  him  has  touched, 

And  fairest  prospects  riven, — 
Who,  as  Thine  almoner,  dispensed 

Thy  gifts,  as  dews  of  heaven, — 
His  noble  heart,  which  was  not  wed 

To  these,  do  Thou  refine  ; 
And  by  this  kind  rebuking  make 

Yet  more  Thy  servant  thine. 

Oh  !  it  is  merciful  that  thus 

Thy  chastening  hand  is  felt, 
When  we,  departing  from  Thy  shrine, 

Have  to  our  idols  knelt. 
Then  let  this  call,  so  loud,  so  stern, 

Which  our  whole  nation  hears  — 
Now  sweetly  win  us  to  return, 

In  penitence  and  tears  !  1837. 


157 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 

I  trod  the  walks  and  velvet  green 
That  carpets  Auburn's  place  of  tombs, 
And  vainly  sought  —  they  were  not  seen  — 
For  burial  damps  and  gathered  glooms. 
But  in  their  stead  the  voice  of  bird 
And  insects'  hum  and  south  wind's  breath, 
And  babbling  brook  my  spirit  stirred 
To  thoughts  that  tarry  not  with  death. 

'Tis  surely  sweet  to  linger  thus 
In  hidden  dell  and  fairy  grove, 
That  seem  unconscious  of  the  curse, 
That  show  Earth  still  has  much  to  love. 
Yet  as  I  gaze  on  chiselled  stone 
And  gorgeous  marble,  rich  and  rare, 
Admiring  Art,  I  feel  alone,  — 
I  deem  not  that  the  Dead  are  there. 

It  seems  not  the  remembered  lost 
Are  shut  up  in  these  lovely  hills  ; 
That  he,  on  life  once  rudely  tost, 
Is  calmly  resting  by  these  rills. 
From  scenes  enchanting  as  are  these, 
Thought  winged  with  pleasure  gaily  springs, 
Yet  wrapt  in  what  Time  has  to  please, 
It  mounts  not  to  eternal  things. 


158 

I  love  the  taste  and  pious  skill 
Which  decorate  this  place  of  rest, 
So  delicate,  so  charming  —  still 
I  love  my  native  churchyard  best. 
For  as  I  watch  its  simple  flowers 
That  bloom  without  the  gardener's  care, 
On  graves  that  lie  to  sun  and  showers, 
I  feel,  I  feel  the  Dead  are  there. 


CONFESSION. 

The  good  confess  to  God  ; —  they  ever  feel 
Sin's  malady  a  God  alone  can  heal ; 
And,  weary  of  its  pains,  they  find  the  breast, 
Emptied  by  true  confession,  has  true  rest. 
The  sinner,  haughty,  and  confirmed  in  pride 
And  stubbornness,  would  fain  transgression  hide. 
He  ne'er  to  Heaven  confesses,  nor  forsakes 
His  crimes  ;  but  to  indifference  betakes 
Himself,  and  says  — "  God  sees  not,  nor  awakes 
Judgment,  long  threatened." 

Yet  on  that  dread  day, 
When  shuddering  systems,  wrecked,  will  pass  away, 
When  thrones  are  set  —  high  o'er  the  startled  crowd 
Will  swell  in  lamentation,  deep  and  loud, 
The  first,  long,  sad  confession  of  the  sentenced  proud. 


159 


FORETASTES. 


Some  joy  it  has  been  mine  to  know, 

When  in  the  closet  bending  low, 

I've  converse  held  with  heaven  in  prayer, 

And  foretastes  had  of  glory  there. 

If  here  such  glimpse  is  given  to  me, 

What  must  the  full  fruition  be  ! 

I've  tasted  happiness,  when  bowed 
In  worship,  with  the  pious  crowd, 
In  temple  walls,  whose  full-voiced  choir 
Pealed  David's  notes  to  David's  lyre, 
And  felt,  if  music  thus  to  love 
Woke  here,  what  is  its  power  above  ! 

I've  touched  those  emblems  with  the  saints, 
Whose  use  restores  the  soul  that  faints, 
And  gathered,  at  the  Saviour's  board, 
Bliss,  Earth  can  neither  give  nor  hoard,  — 
And  thought,  if  cheers  thus  mingled  wine, 
What  is  that  crushed,  that  Living  Vine  ! 

I've  seen  the  Christian  die,  yet  ere 

The  spirit  sought  its  native  sphere, 

I  marked,  with  awe,  his  kindling  eye, 

And  eager  flush,  and  heard  the  sigh 

Of  holy  rapture,  not  of  pain, 

And  thought,  what  conflict  !  yet  what  gain  ! 


160 

For  his  pale  cheek,  I  saw,  was  fanned 
With  breezes  from  the  better  land  ; 
Libations  of  the  next  world's  bliss 
He  drank,  before  he  passed  from  this  ; 
Of  Love  his  life  had  known  the  power ; 
Its  foretastes  sunned  the  last  dark  hour. 

Oh,  there  is  round  us  something  thrown 
Of  other  worlds  !  —  In  crowds,  alone, 
By  day,  by  night,  we  whispers  hear, 
From  errand  angels,  always  near  ; 
Reminding  pilgrims  of  their  home, 
Telling  us  of  the  rest  to  come. 


IDOLATRY. 

I've  an  ancient  Idol,  which 

Lately  filled  its  narrow  niche, 

In  a  temple,  in  a  clime 

Where,  for  long  forgotten  time, 

Still  had  reigned  Idolatry. 

Where  it  proudly  claimed  the  knee 

Of  the  bondman  and  the  free. 

For  it,  reeked  a  million  slaughters, 

To  it,  knelt  the  Orient's  daughters. 

Mothers,  to  obtain  its  grace, 

To  it  prest  their  babe's  sweet  face. 


161 

Fathers,  to  avert  its  evil, 

Gave  their  first  born  to  the  devil. 

Sooth,  I  sadly  look  upon  it, 

Thinking  of  the  waves  of  blood 

And  the  cruelties  that  won  it 

Name  of  Hell's  infernal  god. 

This  one  Idol  which  I  own  — 

"  Ha  !  but  one  !  —  hast  thou  no  other  ?  " 

"  No."     "  Yet  stay  !  thy  bosom's  throne 

Haply  holds,  e'en  now,  its  brother. 

Ay,  a  legion  !  yet  more  hateful 

Than  the  idols  made  of  stone, 

Feared  and  worshipped,  though  unknown. 

Viler,  too,  their  incense  given, 

Than  the  sacrifice,  ungrateful, 

Which  from  pagans  smells  to  Heaven  !  " 


THE   FAITHFUL   FRIEND 

ILLUSTRATING    A    PICTURE. 

Happy  sister  !  happy  brother  ! 
All  the  world  unto  each  other 
Seem  they  at  their  simple  meal ; 
What  can  purer  peace  reveal  ? 
He  has  boyhood's  earnestness, 
She  has  girlish  artlessness  ;  — 
11 


162 

And  to  share  their  supper,  see, 
Dick  is  begging  wistfully. 
Look  demure,  entreating  eye, 

Lifted  paw,  as  plainly  tell 
As  a  dog  can  utter,  "  I 

Am  a  friend  that  serves  you  well. 
Am  I  not,  the  lonesome  night, 

Wakeful  for  you  when  you  sleep  ? 
If  the  robber  comes,  a  bite 

Bids  him  safer  distance  keep. 
And  I  toil  the  winter's  day, 
And  for  you,  the  summer.     Pray 
Who  so  patient  at  your  side 
When  you  walk  and  when  you  ride  ? 
Who  your  dinner  takes  at  noon 

To  the  school-bouse  in  the  lane, — 
Touching  neither  cloth  or  spoon, — 

And  the  basket  back  again, 
Emptied,  to  your  mother  brings  ? 
In  a  thousand  little  things, 
In  a  thousand  little  ways, 
For  a  word  or  look  of  praise, 
Dick  is  daily  showing  you 

Dogs  are  faithful,  and  he  begs, 

Humbly  on  his  hinder  legs, 
For  a  taste  of  supper  too." 

Happy  sister  !  happy  brother  ! 

Friendship  is  a  word  of  art 
Spelt  not  by  ye  —  each  for  other 

Knows  it  truly  in  the  heart. 


163 

That  it  yields  a  generous  pleasure, 
Selfish  man  can  ne'er  dispute, 

When  he  sees  the  priceless  treasure 
Shared  with  the  deserving1  brute. 


THE    GOOD. 

His  life  hath  flowed, 

A  sacred  stream, 
In  whose  calm  depth  the  heautiful  and  pure 
Alone  are  mirrored  ;  which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
May  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light, 
And  takes  no  shadow  from  them.  —  Ion. 

Such  is  the  Good  !  —  Go,  thou,  survey  the  Good, 

Not  in  his  holiday  of  hopes  and  joys, 

But  when  life's  task  is  done.     Look  at  that  life  ! 

Yea,  scrutinize  its  doings.     Lo,  the  long 

And  chequered  scroll,  though  blotted  here  and  there 

With  human  frailty,  shows  no  dastard  deed 

Of  meanness,  cruelty,  dishonoring  wrong, 

Or  aught,  that  in  the  sight  of  angels,  men, 

Or  God,  shall  make  him  hang  his  head  in  shame, 

True,  he  hath  wandered  —  who  hath  not? — yet  he 

Back,  like  a  child,  repenting,  hath  returned, 

And  sought  and  found  forgiveness.     Oh,  how  warm 

Were  love's  strong  gushings  to  his  Father,  then, 


164 

And  gratitude,  and  sorrow  for  his  fault, 
While,  like  a  swelling  river,  joy  and  grief 
Rose  in  his  bosom,  and  found  sweet  relief 
In  sacred  tears ! 

Evenly  hath  he  trod 
Life's  devious  way  ;  the  friend  of  honest  worth, 
Though  clad  in  poverty.     His  step  I've  seen 
Directed  often  to  the  low  abode 
Of  such  ;   'twas  his  with  kindly  hand  to  dry 
The  trickling  sorrows  of  the  fatherless  ; 
And  he  would  cause  the  widow's  heart  aloud 
To  sing  for  joy.     The  servant  of  his  God, — 
Not  vaunting  of  his  deeds,  but  trusting  Him 
Who  once  trod  Calvary,  —  he  journeyed  on 
The  time  appointed,  and  at  last  laid  down, 
Serenely,  at  his  Master's  call,  and  died. 


THE   BURIAL   OF   MOSES. 

And  li«  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over  against 
Beth-peor.  —  Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 

To  gorgeous  burial  goes  the  monarch, 
With  scarf,  and  mute,  and  nodding  plume,  — 
The  glitter,  which  flashed  o'er  his  cradle, 
Settles  around  his  costly  tomb. 


165 

To  burial,  with  a  grievous  mourning, 
The  starred  and  laurelled  hero  goes  ; 
And  muffled  drum  and  solemn  trumpet 
Ring  out  a  stricken  nation's  woes. 

And  brows  of  wisdom  are  uncovered, 
And  hoary  heads  in  grief  are  bent, 
When  he  to  senseless  clay  is  gathered, 
Whose  spirit  searched  the  firmament ; 

And  trod  the  fields,  thick  sown  with  planets, 
And  traced  out  Nature's  secret  laws  ; 
And  followed,  in  their  mighty  courses, 
Suns,  stars,  and  worlds,  to  their  First  Cause. 

With  simple  rite,  the  village  maiden, — 
Cut  down,  how  like  a  flower  at  eve  !  — 
In  all  her  loveliness  is  buried, 
And  rifled  hearts  are  left  to  grieve. 

To  earth  the  little  casket's  given, 
That  lately  held  a  precious  gem  ; 
Oh,  mother  !  wast  thou  wholly  willing 
To  yield  it  for  God's  diadem  ? 

There's  hollow  wo,  there's  genuine  feeling, 
When  dust  is  given  back  to  dust ; 
Some  are  resigned  by  sweet  Religion  ; 
Some  acquiesce,  because  they  must. 


166 

Yet  of  the  burials  Time  has  witnessed, 
None  in  simplicity  may  vie, 
JNone  in  their  state,  with  that  of  Moses, 
Who  went  up  Nebo's  top  to  die. 

What  lofty  obsequies  were  rendered 
That  hour  when  Darkness  held  the  pall  ! 
What  pomp,  where  stood,  in  clouds  pavilioned, 
The  silent,  present,  Lord  of  All  ! 

How  blest  the  man  whose  dust  Jehovah, 
Hid  in  a  grave  that's  yet  untrod  ! 
Thrice  blessed  he,  that  soul  most  happy, 
Whose  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God  ! 


THE   HAPPY   MAN. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton,  1590. 

The  happy  man  is  he,  whose  youth 
Is  not  in  wasting  pleasures  spent  ; 
In  manhood  strong,  whose  word  of  truth 
Still  answers  to  its  strict  intent. 


167 

Of  humble  wish,  whose  wish  is  met 
By  kind  response  from  mercy's  dower  ; 
Whom  disappointments  ne'er  can  fret, 
And  whom  to  harm,  no  ill  hath  power. 

Who  hath  acquaintance  ;  yet  a  friend, 
In  the  true  meaning  of  its  name  ;  — 
One  who  in  absence  will  defend, 
And  present,  if  there's  need  be,  blame. 

Yet  hath  —  all  other  charm  above  — 
That  rose  of  sweet  domestic  bliss, 
Which,  with  sincere  and  modest  love, 
Is,  fresh  and  fragrant,  bound  with  his. — 

Which  sheds  about  his  peaceful  hearth 
Perfumes  of  Eden.     Light  and  life 
Of  heaven  do  surely  visit  earth, 
Where'er  is  known  the  virtuous  wife. — 

Who,  hand  in  hand  with  him,  from  bloom 
Of  youth,  to  age,  will  travel  on  ;  — 
One  home,  one  heart,  one  hope,  one  tomb, 
Till  —  life's  race  o'er  —  the  goal  is  won. 

Yea,  daughters,  who,  as  olive  plants, 
Shall  duly  round  his  table  be  ; 
And  sons,  to  meet  the  en'my's  taunts, 
His  pride  and  crown  continually. 


168 

Whose  eye  beyond  the  grave  is  fixed 
On  the  bright  path  by  angels  trod  ; 
Who  goes  to  drink  the  chalice,  mixed, 
Of  wondrous  joy,  prepared  by  God. 


THE   BRAHMIN   SUICIDE. 

On  the  way,  seeing  a  number  of  natives  passing  them  hastily, 
and  inquiring  the  cause,  they  were  told  that  a  Brahmin  had 
drowned  himself  under  the  pressure  of  pain  ;  upon  which  they 
took  occasion  to  point  out  the  wretched  condition  of  their  guides, 
and  exhorted  them  to  seek  the  grace  and  peace  of  God  in  their 
hearts,  which  would  enable  them  patiently  to  endure  calamities. 
Some  of  them  insinuated  that  God  had  predestinated  the  Brahmin 
to  bis  miserable  end  ;  but  the  missionaries  testified  that  God  was 
not  the  author  of  evil,  but  was  a  lover  of  our  temporal  and  eternal 
happiness.  —  Memoirs  of  Rev.  C.  F.  Swartz. 

Beautiful  are  the  feet  that  stand, 
Of  heralds  on  the  heathen  land  ! 
Beautiful  on  the  distant  mountains, 
And  by  cool  and  gushing  fountains  ; 
Beautiful  by  the  river's  side, 
Where  heaves  the  idol  dome  in  pride, 
Where  is  stretched  the  Suicide  ! 
Beautiful  is  Humility, 
Speaking  'neath  the  banyan  tree, 
Warning  the  aged  devotee  ; 


169 

Telling  the  young  of  a  Shepherd  nigh, 
Whose  arms  are  safe,  whose  fold  is  high  ; 
Telling  the  poor  of  pearls  and  gems 
Seen  not  in  Earth's  diadems  ; 
Telling  adorers  of  the  river, 
Many  floods  can  ne'er  deliver, 
Gunga  cannot  save  the  soul, 
Jordan  only  maketh  whole. 
Telling  to  him  who  painfully  goes 
On  pilgrimage,  that  fleshly  woes 
Ne'er  atone  for  precept  broke  — 
Ne'er  release  from  Error's  yoke. 
Oh,  beyond  all  worldly  treasure, 
Oh,  beyond  all  worldly  pleasure, 
Is  an  errand  such  as  this  ! 
Is  the  Missionary's  bliss  ! 
Heaven's  highest  seat  is  found 
For  him  who  toils  on  heathen  ground  ! 
And  who  is  he  on  the  Indian  sands, 
That  like  a  heavenly  teacher  stands  ? 
Near  him  towers  the  Moslem's  mosque, 
And  Paganism's  proud  kiosk. 
O'er  him  blooms  the  scented  lime, 
And  the  noble  trees  of  the  eastern  clime, 
Sheltering  from  the  noon-day  glare  — 
And  see  !  what  gathered  crowds  are  there. 
The  listening  traveller  reins  his  steed, 
The  water-bearer  giveth  heed  ; 
Each  seeks  his  face  with  gaze  intense, 
As  if,  save  one,  was  locked  each  sense. 


170 

Earnestly  seize  the  old  and  young 

Words  that  drop  from  the  stranger's  tongue. 

And  who  is  he,  of  the  lifeless  form, 
With  drooping  limbs,  and  blood  yet  warm? 
They've  raised  him  from  the  river's  bed  — 
The  water-lily  round  his  head  — 
The  pulse  all  still,  the  spirit  fled  ! 
And  this  is  why  is  told  the  tale 
At  which  the  Hindoo's  cheek  is  pale. 
'Tis  of  one  who  fed  the  altar's  fire, 
And  walked  around  the  suttee's  pyre, 
And  stood  before  his  god  of  stone, 
Blind  worshipper  of  the  Unknown. 
In  senseless  mysteries  bearing  part, 
Versed  in  the  Shaster  —  not  the  heart. 
Ay,  and  he  felt  a  void  within, 
That  waters  were  bootless  for  his  sin  : 
Ay,  and  he  bowed  beneath  his  pain, 
And  rushed,  uncalled,  to  God  again  !  — 
What  hell  can  burn  away  that  stain  ? 

Beautiful  now  are  the  feet  of  him 
Who  comes  with  voice  of  the  seraphim, 
Standing,  and  telling  of  a  balm  for  woes  — 
A  fount  for  the  leper,  that  ever  flows  : 
A  Gilead  and  Physician  too, 
Which  Paganism  never  knew. 
And  teaching  that  relentless  Fate 
Doth  not  on  hapless  mortals  wait. 

Oh,  God  is  not  author  of  evil ;  his  love 
Share  the  dwellers  below  and  the  happy  above  ! 


171 


Sweeter  than  breezes  of  the  South, 

Is  pity  from  the  teacher's  mouth  : 

Sweeter  than  music  of  the  spheres, 

Which  the  errand  angel  hears, 

Are  tidings  that  fall  on  the  Pagan's  ears  ! 

And  he  will  hear,  and  the  heart  will  melt, 

And  the  knee  shall  be  Christ's  which  to  devils  has 

knelt. 
And  meekness  he'll  learn  from  this  deed  of  pride, 
And  life  from  the  Brahmin  Suicide  ! 


TO   THE   IDOLATER. 

Idolater  in  darkness  !  we  of  light, 

Do  humbly  Christendom's  neglect  confess 

Of  her  dear  Lord's  last  message  ;  and  we  bless 

Jesus,  who  spares,  nor  frowns  us  into  night 

For  this  our  sin,  as  righteously  he  might. 

We  hear,  at  length,  your  lamentable  cry, 

And  the  Church  rises  to  your  help.     She  arms 

Her  young  men.     Look  !  the  kindling  eye, 

That  brightens  at  the  note  of  war's  alarms, 

The  sinewy  souls  for  whom  stern  toil  has  charms, 

The  eager  tread  of  those  that  go  to  die, 

Tell  of  the  men,  who,  counting  earth  as  dross, 

For  you  will  gladly  yield  their  latest  sigh, 

So  God  have  glory,  Death  and  Hell  have  loss. 


172 


THE   APPEAL. 

I  read  in  a  late  number  of  the  Journal  of  the  American  Tempe- 
rance Union,  the  following,  from  a  g  ntleman  in  New  Jersey,  to 
the  editor  :  —  "  Ycu  have  nry  ardent  prayers  and  humble  efforts. 
He  who  has  trembled  for  his  life,  feels  more  than  tongue  can  ex- 
press.    Rescue  the  youth  !     Onward  !     Onward  !  " 

Ay,  limner  !  paint  the  certain  ruin 

Which  lingers  in  the  drunkard's  path  ; 
The  wo,  the  tears,  the  curst  undoing, — 

His  fellow's  scorn,  his  Maker's  wrath. 
And  paint  the  widow's  frantic  sorrow, 

And  orphan's,  made  so  by  the  cup, — 
Complete  the  sketch  !  thou  need'st  not  borrow 

One  tint  of  hell  to  fill  it  up. 

The  morbid  appetite,  still  craving, 

Unsated  as  the  greedy  grave  : 
The  recklessness,  all  judgment  braving, 

The  sordid  mind  that  marks  the  slave  ;  — 
The  blight  that  hovers  o'er  our  nation, 

Unless  she  timely  turns  the  curse  — 
Than  pestilence  or  conflagration, 

Or  war's  infernal  horrors,  worse. 

Our  teeming  suburb's  lanes  and  alleys 

Turn  out  to  gaze  of  open  day  ; 
Expose  their  thousand  haunts,  where  rallies 

The  host,  Intemperance  leads  astray  ;  — 


173 

His  doings,  too,  the  soul  congealing, 

Of  misery  in  the  city's  street, 
To  rouse  the  latent  throb  of  feeling, 

From  Maine  to  Florida  repeat. 

And  yet,  methinks,  that  page  of  sadness, 

To  read  which,  Pity's  tear  would  start, 
Must  fail  to  check  the  tide  of  madness, 

Or  move  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 
Compared  with  that  appeal,  which  Heaven 

Prompts,  when,  such  fearful  wreck  to  shun, 
A  father  hails  the  life-boat  given, 

With  "  Rescue  !  Rescue  !  "  for  his  son. 


THE   SNARE. 

ILLUSTRATING    A    PICTURE. 

"  Well,  now  I  have  bent  this  sapling  right, 
'Tis  small  and  lithe,  and  I'll  soon  make  tight 
This  cord,  and  the  noose  I'll  cunningly  fix, 
And  the  rabbit  will  find  I'm  up  to  tricks. 
He'll  not  be  the  first  that's  seen  my  trap, — 
The  spoils  of  many  are  in  my  cap  ! 
'Tis  sport  —  yet  something  sometimes  stings, 
When  I  think  of  the  gentle,  timid  things  ; 
How  carelessly  I've  contrived  their  death, 
As  if  I'd  a  right  to  stop  their  breath  ! 


174 

I  wish  I  knew  a  way  to  take 
The  varlets  alive,  for  Sally's  sake  ;  — 
She  often  begs  me  to  save  her  one, 
To  be  her  pet,  and  share  in  her  fun." 

Thoughtless,  and  simple,  and  happy  boy  ! 

A  lesson  learn  from  thy  rural  toy. 

Others  are  busily  toiling  as  thou, 

Snares  are  artfully  woven  now  ! 

The  earth,  the  air,  and  the  smiling  sea, 

Are  full  of  gins  and  nets  for  thee. 

Beware  of  folly  —  for  should'st  thou  sip, 

The  rose  from  thy  cheek,  the  dew  from  thy  lip 

Would  quickly  pass,  and  the  cruel  dart 

Of  keen  remorse  would  pierce  thy  heart. 

In  vain,  in  the  sight  of  any  bird, 

Is  the  net  prepared,  and  thou  hast  heard  ! 

Oh  !  look  in  thy  youth  to  heaven  in  prayer, 

And  He  that's  strong  will  save  from  the  snare 


NATURE'S   WORSHIP. 

I  stole  away  from  the  hot  city  to  repair  languid  strength,  by  a 
sojourn  at  North  Marshfield,  Mass.,  and  there  indited,  for  my 
little  daughter,  as  follows  :  — 

How  the  tiny  wren  is  making 

Music  in  its  cheerfulness, — 
Of  the  watchful  Guardian  telling, 

Who  a  little  bird  can  bless ! 


175 

How  the  giant  oak  and  maple 
Toss  their  noble  arms  abroad, — 

Thickly  laden  with  the  blossom, 

Whose  wild  fragrance  smells  to  God 

How  the  honeysuckles,  spotting 
This  rich  carpet  of  the  vale, 

As  they  flaunt  in  very  pleasure, 
Whisper,  each  to  each,  the  tale  ! 

How  the  glittering  insect-squadrons, 
As  they  wheel  and  march  in  air, 

Lift  aloud  their  million  trumpets, 
And  their  Leader's  skill  declare  ! 

How  the  herds,  that  dot  the  hill-side, 
Mutely  tell  me,  as  they  feed, 
"  God,  who  kindly  cares  for  cattle, 
Is  a  bounteous  God  indeed  !  " 

How  the  very  sky  is  laughing, 

By  the  Morning  wooed  and  won,  — 

How  the  very  earth  rejoices, 
'Neath  the  fervors  of  the  sun  ! 

11  God  !  "  repeats  the  small  birds'  music, 
"  God  !  "  the  painted  insects  cry  ; 

'  God  !  "  the  giant  trees  are  murmuring - 
"  God  !  "  the  little  shrubs  reply. 


176 

Voices  from  the  solemn  forest ! 

Voices  from  the  tribes  of  flowers  ! 
Voices  from  the  brute  creation, 

Sky,  and  earth  !  — yet  where  are  ours  f 

Poor  and  vile,  toe  cannot  render 
Worship  —  darkened  so  by  sin  — 

Till  the  heavenly  Sun  of  glory 

Pierce  the  shade,  and  shine  within. 


COMPASSION. 

The  squalid  woman  sat  beside  the  bed  ; 
And  on  that  tattered  bed,  lay  in  repose 
Of  death,  her  husband,  who  had  died  that  night. 
The  room  was  cumbered  with  old  furniture 
And  dirt.     Reclined  upon  a  broken  chest 
Was  the  sick  daughter,  munching  a  poor  crust. 
The  corpse  —  the  widow,  rocking  on  her  seat, 
In  reverie  of  anguish  —  the  wan  child  — 
The  poverty  —  sent  sickness  to  my  heart. 
Another,  yet,  was  there  ;  a  neighbor  girl, 
Who  came,  with  right  good  will  and  kindliness, 
To  aid  these  sufferers.     She  the  woman  soothed, 
And  washed  and  fed  the  child  ;  and  decently 
Prepared  the  clay  for  its  last  narrow  house. 


177 


THE    SONS   OF    GOD 


Behold  what  manner  of  love  the  Father  hath  bestowed  upon  us. 
that  we  should  be  called  the  sons  of  God.  —  IJohn  iii.  1. 

So  astonishing  did  this  seem,  when  one  of  the  Malabrian  con- 
verts was  required  by  the  Danish  missionaries  thus  to  translate 
this  passage,  that  he  shrunk  from  it,  as  far  too  bold.  "  Let  me 
rather  render  it,"  said  he,  "  They  shall  be  permitted  to  kiss  his 
feet."  —  Notes  to  Cottage  Bible. 


TO    THE    AXGELS. 

And  who  are  they  that  wear  such  name, 
By  whom  your  starry  courts  are  trod ; 
Above  yon  ministers  of  flame, 
And  known  as  sons  of  God  ? 
Whose  forms  seem  like  to  men  below, 
Whose  anthems,  sweeter  than  the  rest, 
Speak  of  some  sad,  mysterious  wo, 
Deliverance  and  rest ;  — 
Who  touch  with  warmer  thrill  the  string 
Of  warbling  harps,  and  to  their  lyres 
Unwonted  love  and  gladness  bring, 
And  far  intenser  fires  :  — 
Oh,  who  are  they,  whose  lofty  song 
To  hear,  your  bests  delay  their  own, — 
That  humblest  bow  of  all  your  throng, 
And  nearest  to  the  throne  ? 
12 


178 


THE    ANGELS      REPLY. 

These  are  from  unknown  tongues  and  climes, 

And  this  their  song  of  sweet  degrees  ; 

Hark  !  through  wide  heaven,  as  one,  its  chimes 

Peal,  like  the  "  sound  of  seas." 

And  their  rich  music  truly  tells 

That  each,  whose  feet  with  joy  is  shod, 

Once  lost,  now  found,  for  ever  dwells, 

The  reconciled  with  God. 

From  deepest  depths  of  miry  sin, 

Pollution,  and  the  dreadful  curse, 

Raised,  and  adorned  without,  within,  — 

On  thrones  commanding  us, 

They  sing  of  chastisement  and  grace  ; 

And  we,  who  never  knew  the  rod, 

Gaze  not  on  the  Redeemer's  face, 

As  gaze  these  sons  of  God  ! 


INNOCENCE. 

The  golden  days  of  Innocence 
Were  only  those  when  Adam  trod 
The  garden,  —  mind,  and  will,  and  sense, 
In  sweet  subjection  to  his  God. 

How  swiftly  flew  those  white-winged  hours 
Each  with  some  hue  of  heaven  imprest  — 
How  honored  were  those  Eden  bowers, 
Where  some  bright  angel  oft  was  guest ! 


179 

Yet  Innocence  may  still  be  seen 
In  childhood's  presence.     Who  can  gaze, 
Unmoved,  upon  that  brow,  serene, 
That  agile  form,  those  witching  ways, 

That  playfulness  of  tiny  mirth, 
That  lively  joy  —  and  not  confess 
That  Innocence,  still  found  on  earth, 
Doth  nestle  in  a  child's  caress  ? 

And,  therefore,  when  the  painter's  art 
Would  sketch  its  charms  in  pleasant  view, 
Revealing  the  unpractised  heart  — 
He  always  shows  a  child  to  you. 


THAT   LOOK. 

And  the  Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter.  —  Luke  nil.  61 . 

That  look  !  —  when  eye  met  eye  —  what  power 

Was  in  that  wondrous  look, 
Which  he,  deemed  of  the  Twelve,  a  tower, 

Unshaken,  might  not  brook  ? 

Rolled  forth  the  angry  thunders  then, 

To  speak  his  blighting  shame  ? 
Or  met  that  chief  of  fickle  men 

The  Godhead's  glance  of  flame  ?  — 


180 

Revealing,  where  the  mocked  One  stood 
The  scorned  in  priestly  hall  — 

That  he,  about  to  bear  the  wood, 
And  die,  was  Sire  of  All  ? 

No  !  such  was  not  His  gracious  will, 

His  nature  was  not  so  ; 
Yea,  that  He,  patient,  pitieth  still, 

My  soul  has  cause  to  know  ! 

Round  that  proud  palace — dark  as  hell, 

With  hell's  completed  crime  — 
No  forked  and  fiery  vengeance  fell : 
Twas  not  the  Father's  time. 

No  !  nor  on  that  Denier,  who 
For  life,  risked  life  above  ;  — 

Yet  his  forgiving  Lord  he  knew, 
In  that  full  glance  of  Love  ! 


THE  TWENTY  THOUSAND  CHILDREN 


OF    THE    SABBATH    SCHOOLS    IN    NEW    YORK,  CELEBRATING    TO- 
GETHER   THE    FOURTH    OF    JULY,  ]839. 


Oh,  sight  sublime  !  oh,  sight  of  fear  ! 
The  shadowing  of  infinity  — 
Numbers  !  whose  murmur  rises  here 
Like  whisperings  of  the  mighty  sea. 


181 

Ye  bring  strange  vision  to  my  gaze  ; 
Earth's  dreamer,  heaven  before  me  swims  ; 
The  sea  of  glass  —  the  throne  of  days  — 
Crowns,  harps,  and  the  melodious  hymns. 

Ye  rend  the  air  with  grateful  songs 
For  freedom  by  old  warriors  won  :  — 
Oh,  for  the  battle  which  your  throngs 
May  wage  and  win  through  David's  Son  ! 

Wealth  of  young  beauty  !  that  now  blooms 
Before  me,  like  a  world  of  flowers,  — 
High  expectation  !  that  assumes 
The  hue  of  life's  serenest  hours, — 

Are  ye  decaijing  ?  —  must  these  forms 
So  agile,  fair,  and  brightly  gay, 
Hidden  in  dust,  be  given  to  worms 
And  everlasting  night  the  prey  ? 

Are  ye  immortal  ?  —  will  this  mass 
Of  life,  be  life,  undying  still, 
When  all  these  sentient  thousands  pass 
To  where  corruption  works  its  will  ? 

Thought !  that  takes  hold  of  heaven  and  hell, 

Be  in  each  Teacher's  heart  to-day  ! 

So  shall  eternity  be  well 

With  these,  when  time  has  fled  away. 


182 


LAUREL   HILL   CEMETERY,; 

NEAR    PHILADELPHIA. 

When  my  spirit  leaves  the  clay, 

And  the  holy  priest  doth  say 

Over  me,  in  humble  trust, 

"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust," 

And  this  mortal  —  tribute  paid  — 

In  its  narrow  cell  is  laid, 

Till  it  gladly,  quitting  tombs, 

Immortality  assumes, — 

Be  that  refuge  of  the  weary 

In  this  lovely  cemetery, 

Or  in  scenes  inviting  one 

To  repose,  his  labor  done, 

As  these  kindly  do  invite 

Me  to  tarry  death's  long  night. 

Let  me  take  my  slumber,  then, 

Far  from  haunts  of  busy  men, 

In  a  spot  as  fair  as  this, 

Where  the  playful  breezes  kiss 

Early  blossoms,  fragrant  flowers. 

Let  me,  in  such  quiet  bowers, 

Find  at  last  my  resting  place. 

Flesh  to  grave,  and  soul  to  grace  ! 

'Mid  such  peaceful  Sabbath  reigning, 

'Mid  such  melancholy  plaining 


183 

Of  sweet  birds  above  my  head, 
Would  I  tarry  when  I'm  dead, — 
Would  I  take  my  solemn  ease, 
Till  shall  Time  his  centuries 
Finish.     Let  me  in  such  ground, 
When  the  world  breaks  up,  be  found. 
Here  I'd  rather  choose  to  lie, 
Than  in  crowded  charnels  ;  I 
Shudder  at  the  thought  of  fingers 
Rudely  handling  that  which  lingers 
Of  the  mouldering  form,  and  tossing 
Relics  round,  with  jest  and  scoffing, 
As  they  were  the  vilest  earth, 
Making  of  corruption  mirth. 
Far  from  violated  tombs, 
Lay  me  where  the  laurel  blooms, — 
Where  the  murmuring  river  flows 
With  the  cadence  of  repose. 
Like  a  hermit  would  I  steal 
Hither,  where  the  vexing  wheel 
Of  the  toiler  is  not  heard,  — 
Where  the  carol  of  the  bird 
Mingles  with  the  zephyrs'  talk, — 
Where,  at  noon,  the  shady  walk 
Beckons  pilgrims,  —  where  is  found 
Room  for  lodgers  of  the  ground  ;  — 
Where  no  sullen  city  wall 
Casts  its  shadows,  like  a  pall, — 
Where  no  sacrilegious  stir 
Mocketh  at  the  slumberer,  — 
Where  the  friend  may  sigh  alone 
Over  the  recording  stone, 


184 

And  lament  of  love  be  given 

Only  unto  pitying  Heaven. 

In  these  groves  where  Wisdom  museth, 

In  this  spot  Religion  chooseth, 

Let  me  my  appointed  time 

Wait,  till  stars  no  longer  chime  ;  — 

Till  the  music  of  the  spheres 

Stops  for  ever,  and  the  ears 

Of  the  breakers  from  the  tomb 

Hear  the  trumpet's  call  to  doom. 


THE   VOICE. 

Oh  !  what  a  Voice  comes  in  the  stilly  hush 

Of  solemn  twilight,  when  the  world's  loud  rush 

Is  silenced  !  —  and  it  speaketh  sadly,  then, 

Of  hours  misspent,  of  folly  wrought  by  men. 

That  Voice  is  heard  amid  the  busy  din 

Of  life.     In  toil  and  pleasure,  deeds  of  sin, 

Long  since  forgotten,  as  accusers,  come 

Up  to  remembrance  ;  awful  is  their  sum  ! 

That  Voice  !  —  where  comes  it  not  ?  —  Take  wings, 

take  wings, 
And  still  it  follows  with  its  tale  of  things 
Thou  lovest  not  to  dwell  on ; —  in  thick  night, 
Day,  distance,  yea,  even  now,  unto  thy  flight 
To  dreary  solitude  and  hurried  throng ;  — 
Telling  that  God  is  right,  and  thou  art  wrong. 


185 


THE   POET'S   THEME. 

They  err,  who  say  that  every  theme 

Of  song  's  exhausted  by  the  Muse,  — 
That  fled  is  fancy's  tinted  dream, 

And  vanished  are  Castalia's  dews  ; 
I'll  not  believe  it  while  this  lyre 

May  sound  the  song  approved  above, 
And  while  this  soul,  with  other  fire 

Than  earth's  inflamed,  responds  to  love. 

Not  love  which  prompts  the  wassail-song, 

Where  bacchanalian  bands  are  met ; 
Who  boast,  a  care-entangled  throng, 

That  in  the  cup  they  care  forget. 
Nor  yet  the  all-unholy  flame 

Which,  purely  kindled  not  for  one, 
Burnetii  before  the  god  of  shame, 

At  shrines  where  worship  the  undone. 

I  choose  the  theme,  in  this  my  leaf 

Of  life,  that  soothed  my  early  hours  ; 
And  though  high  bards,  acknowledged  chief 

Of  those  that  own  immortal  powers, 
May  charm  corroding  ills  away, 

And  please  the  soft,  luxurious  ear, 
I  care  not,  so  my  numbers  may 

Beguile  the  thoughtful  of  a  tear, 


186 

Or  lull,  as  they  have  sometimes  lull'd, 

The  grief  that  came  —  a  surging  wave- 
When,  for  her  dead,  the  mother  saw 

A  cherub  live  beyond  the  grave  ! 
Oh,  still  I  choose  the  lyre,  whose  theme 

Is  caught  from  lip  to  lip  above  ; 
Better  than  wine,  or  poet's  dream 

Of  earthly  bliss,  is  heavenly  love. 


THE   ADVENT. 

Why,  on  darkness  of  the  night, 
Streameth  uncreated  light  ? 
Why,  above  the  Eastern  plains, 
Tremble  those  melodious  strains  ? 
Who  are  those  of  perfect  mould, 
Wearing  crowns  and  harps  of  gold  ? 
Why  is  stayed  each  eager  wing  ? 
What's  the  glorious  song  they  sing  ? 
This  is  light  from  yonder  throne, 
These  are  strains  from  heaven  alone, 
These  the  errand  cherubim, 
These  the  praising  seraphim  ; 
They  hold  converse  of  the  plan 
So  just  to  God,  so  safe  to  man, 
And  of  Him,  who  diadem 
Leaving,  comes  to  Bethlehem, 


187 

Mortals  rescuing,  sin-beguiled. 

"  Mighty  God  !  mysterious  Child  !  " 

Hark  !  in  symphony  they  play, 

Golden  strings  repeat  the  lay  ; 

An  injured  God,  a  frowning  throne, 

Mercy  to  the  rebel  shown  ! 

Sweetly,  each  immortal  chord 

Tells  of  the  descended  Lord, — 

The  bleeding  Lamb  an  offering  made, 

Earth  restored,  the  pardon  paid. 

Praise  Him  !  —  When  celestial  wires 

Waken,  where  are  earthly  choirs  ? 

Praise  Him  !  —  When  the  hosts  above 

Laud  Him,  where  is  mortal  love  ? 

Praise  Him  !  praise  Him  !  who  hath  given 

Peace  on  earth,  and  joy  in  heaven. 


THE   DEAD   BOY. 

Mother  !  little  William  lies 
Very  still  —  his  laughing  eyes 
Look  no  more  on  thee  and  me  ; 
Though  I  speak,  he  will  not  hear- 
What  may  this,  dear  mother,  be  ? 
As  I  gaze,  I  almost  fear. 
Though  I  stroke  his  silken  hair, 
Touch  his  cheek,  so  pale  and  fair, 


188 

Though  his  pretty  mouth  1  kiss, 
Yet  he  minds  not  —  why  is  this  ? 
His  tiny  hand  will  nothing  hold, 
And  his  fingers  are  so  cold  ! 
William  !  wake  !  —  it  is  not  sleep, 
Surely,  slumber's  not  so  deep. 
Pretty  baby  !  look  at  sis  — 
Look  at  me,  and  wake,  or  I 
Shall  my  little  plaything  miss  ; 
Wake,  or  darling  sis  will  cry. 
I  cannot  think  what  makes  him  so  — 
You  told  me,  mother,  he  must  go. 
Yet  he's  here,  and  yet  he's  not 
Somehow.     Has  he  us  forgot  ? 
Will  he  love  me,  then,  no  longer  ? 
Me,  who  took  him,  as  I'm  stronger, 
Every  day,  upon  my  lap  — 
Smoothed  his  frock  and  tied  his  cap  — 
Played  bo-peep,  and  made  him  smile, 
When  you  stood  and  laughed  the  while. 
Won't  he  move,  or  shake  his  head, 
As  he  used  to  do  in  fun  ? 
Won't  he  learn  to  jump  and  run  ? 
Mother  !  mother  !  is  he  dead  ? 

Yes,  my  daughter  !     You  must  take 
Your  last  look.     He  will  not  wake. 
Never  more  with  cunning  ways, 
Watch  you  in  your  daily  plays. 
Never  show  the  pouting  lips, 
Where  a  mother  pleasure  sips. 


189 

Nor  the  sweet  mouth  open,  so 
We  may  see  where  pearls  do  grow. 
He  was  very  sick,  but  he 
Is  from  sickness  ever  free. 
He  was  weak  in  every  limb  — 
Active  now  as  cherubim 
Is  he.     How  he  sunk  in  pain  ! 
He  will  never  droop  again. 
Tears  of  anguish  will  not  wet 
Those  blue  lids,  where  death  has  set 
Solemn  seal ;  the  aching  breast 
Heaves  no  more,  for  all's  at  rest. 
Oh,  how  changed  from  him  we  saw, 
When,  last  night,  he  tried  to  draw 
His  pure  breath,  and  each  endeavor 
Seemed  as  if  'twould  spirit  sever 
From  the  suffering  body.     Now 
Calmness  sits  upon  his  brow, 
Dried  is  every  tear  that  gushed, 
Every  laboring  sigh  is  hushed. 
Death  and  sad  decay  are  here  ! 
Beauty  of  the  skies  is  here  ! 
Resurrection's  light  is  here  ! 
He  is  here,  and  he  is  not ! 
Oh,  my  child  !  a  blessed  lot 
Is  our  William's  now  above, 
Where  small  children  sing  of  love, 
Casting  their  young  honors  down 
At  His  feet,  the  harp  and  crown, 
Who  in  heaven  the  diadem 
Wears  — the  Babe  of  Bethlehem  ! 


190 

Sweet  the  hymn,  whose  stately  march 
Ever  is  around  that  arch 
Pealing  of  redemption  !     Song, 
Sweeter,  louder,  doth  belong 
To  the  cherub  infant  throng, 
Whose  sweet  voices  warble  clear 
Music,  God  delights  to  hear. 
Come,  my  daughter  !  leave  him  now  ; 
We  in  humble  prayer  will  bow 
At  our  heavenly  Father's  feet, 
Asking  that  we  all  may  meet 
Where  the  infant  of  an  hour 
Is  an  angel.     Where  each  power 
Of  a  feeble  babe  may  clasp 
Themes  that  angels  cannot  grasp. 
Parting  is  to-day  in  sorrow  — 
Joyful  meeting  is  to-morrow  — 
With  him,  dearest,  then  to  be 
Heirs  of  immortality. 


WAIT,   WORKING! 

Wait  thou  on  Jehovah  !  instructively  cries 

The  Psalmist  of  Israel  to  thee  — 
A  guide  to  thy  steps,  and  a  light  to  thine  eyes, 

In  darkness  and  doubt  he  will  be. 


191 


Wait  thou  on  Jehovah  in  poverty's  hour  — 

Before  him  confidingly  stand 
In  meekness,  and  thee  will  the  arm  of  his  power 

Exalt,  to  inherit  the  land. 

Wait  thou  on  Jehovah,  when  wealth,  like  a  flood, 

Rolls  in,  and  still  consecrate  this, 
In  time  of  thy  stewardship,  wisely,  to  God, 

Lest  thou  his  inheritance  miss. 

Wait  thou  upon  Him  in  importunate  prayer, 

And  he  will  thy  sacrifice  own  — 
If  with  it  'tis  humbly  and  truly  thy  care 

That  labor  is  joined  at  the  throne. 

For  poor  is  oblation  where  charity's  not, — 

Such  formally  waiting  in  vain 
Will  be  found,  at  the  last,  on  thy  garment,  a  spot- 

What  ocean  may  wash  out  the  stain  ! 

In  trials  and  blessings  that  meet  thee,  do  thou, 

While  glad,  or  submissively  still, 
Rejoice  in  his  love,  to  his  providence  bow, 

And  work,  as  thou  waitest  His  will. 

And  thou,  whose  delight  it  may  be,  for  thy  Lord, 
In  his  Sunday  school  still  to  be  spent  — 

While  scattering  there  the  good  seed  of  the  Word, 
Scan  truly  thy  wish  and  intent. 


192 


Thou  teachest  another  —  hath  Wisdom  thee  taught 

Thy  folly  and  weakness  to  see  ? 
And  hast  thou,  in  weeping  and  watchfulness,  brought 

Thy  charge  where  the  sinner  should  be  ? 

In  prayer  dost  thou  wait,  where,  in  secret,  each  face 

Of  thy  class  rises  up  to  thy  love  — 
And  toil  for  these  dear  ones,  believing  that  grace 

Will  guide  them  to  safety  above  ? 

Wait  in  all  on  Jehovah  !  not  passively  wait ; 

With  zeal  be  thou  girded  and  shod  — 
Sitting  down,  rising  up,  in  the  house,  in  the  gate, 

Oh,  work,  as  thou  waitest  on  God. 

His  universe  serves  him.     The  shining  ones  touch 
Their  harps,  as  they  wait  his  behest  — 

Obeyers,  while  waiting  ;  we,  too,  may  be  such, 
Who  more  than  the  angels  are  blest. 


VICTORIA; 

ON    SEEING    HER    PICTURE. 

God  give  thee  helping  grace  !  so  young 
To  sway  the  sceptre  of  a  realm, — 

In  barque  so  frail,  on  surges  flung, 
And  scant  experience  at  the  helm. 


193 


God  give  thee  helping  grace  !   whose  way 

Of  brilliance,  winds  'mid  thrones  and  powers  ; 

On  either  hand,  allurements  gay; 

Above  thee,  suns;  beneath  thee,  flowers. 

The  earnest  praise  of  titled  throngs 

Is  gathered  round  thy  greatness  now ; 
Inspiring  theme  of  thousand  songs, 

In  palace,  hall  and  cottage,  thou  ! 
And  pleasure  showers  its  blessings  down 

For  thee,  and  fair  is  fortune's  shine  ; 
And  all  that  waits  and  woos  a  crown, 

Of  reverence  and  love  is  thine. 

Not  Albion  with  her  sister  states  — 

Thy  sea-girt  empire  —  is  alone 
Thy  heritage  ;  to  thee  the  gates 

Of  eastern  worlds  are  open  thrown. 
And  to  thy  will  are  subject  kings,  — 

And  at  thy  rule  are  far  lands  seen, 
On  whose  extreme  the  sunrise  flings 

No  ray,  nor  sunset,  twilight's  sheen. 

How  potent  is  thy  arm  to  draw 

The  sword  !  —  Yea,  God's  own  boon  of  breath 
Hangs  on  thy  pleasure,  when  the  law, 

Severe,  demands  its  forfeit,  death. 
How  sovereign,  —  thou  the  fount,  —  to  strew 

Honors  along  the  courtier's  path  ! 
How  genial  as  the  precious  dew 

Thy  smiles  !  how  fearful  is  thy  wrath  ! 
13 


194 

Yet,  Lady  !  high  as  destiny- 
Hath  placed  thee  with  a  kingdom's  dower, 

Thou  art  not  from  life's  evils  free, 
Nor  yet  above  misfortune's  hour. 

Let  pointing  History  sternly  tell 
In  Antoinette's  and  Mary's  blood, 

That  those  are  only  safe,  who  dwell 
Fast  in  the  palaces  of  God  ! 

Yes,  thine  own  Windsor's  bowers  can  show  — 

Whose  pensive  portraits  line  the  wall  — 
How  freely  regal  blood  can  flow, 

How  queens  beneath  the  axe  may  fall. 
That  not  all  virtues  which  e'er  met 

In  woman,  if  all  met  in  thee, 
Could  save  thee,  (Bullen,  dost  forget  ?) 

Or  bear  thee  safe  through  passion's  sea, 

If  Heaven  permit  the  waves  to  swell 

That  foam  out  thus  a  nation's  shame  ;  — 
Their  rising  moan  may  be  thy  knell, 

For  human  hearts  are  still  the  same. 
And  records  of  that  heart  can  say 

What  foul  caprice  may  stain  its  page, 
How  she,  its  idol  known  to-day, 

To-morrow  falls  beneath  its  rage. 

Enough  !  enough  !  — my  song  intrudes 

Too  long  on  all  of  happiness  ; 
Yet  fain,  'mid  power's  vicissitudes, 

Would  I  invoke  the  Power  to  bless, 


195 

Who  holds  the  dreadful  hearts  of  men. 

Lie  thou  within  His  gracious  hand ;  — 
And,  Lady  !  thou'rt  in  safety  then, 

And  safe  thy  throne  and  happy  land, 


TO  MY  LITTLE   SON, 

TWO    MONTHS    OLD. 

They  said  that  I  should  give  to  thee, 
The  name  thy  elder  brother  wore, — 
Thy  absent  brother,  whom  my  knee 
Hath  dandled,  whom  I  hold  no  more. 
I  cannot  give  thy  brother's  name 
To  thee,  my  little  infant  son  ! 
In  dust  he  sleepeth,  yet  the  same 
He  seems,  as  either  precious  one 
Of  those  that  still  remain  with  me  :  — 
I  cannot  give  his  name  to  thee ; 
The  name  thy  elder  brother  wore, 
The  plaything  on  our  parlor  floor, 
Who  with  us  is  no  longer  seen, — 
Oh,  no  !  I  call  thee  not  Eugene  ! 
'Twould  seem  to  blot  him  from  his  place 
Though  he,  to  fill  our  bitter  cup, 
Hath  died,  I  cannot  thus  efface 
His  memory.     No  !  I  reckon  up, 


196 


With  these  dear  children,  the  loved  others 

Who  slumber  in  their  early  grave, 

As  mine.     I  cite  their  several  names  — 

The  buried,  with  their  living  brothers, 

And  sister,  which  my  Maker  gave  ; 

And  love  as  well  the  absent  claims 

As  those  around  my  fireside  seen, — 

Oh,  no  !  I  call  thee  not  Eugene  !  1837. 


TRUE   SCIENCE. 

Could  I  name  every  curious  root, 

And  every  floweret  call, 
From  cedars  of  gray  Lebanon 

To  hyssops  on  the  wall  — 
What  were  my  boasted  knowledge  worth, 

Weighed  e'en  in  scales  below  — 
Did  I  not,  by  true  science  taught, 

The  Root  of  Jesse  know  ? 

Could  I  with  Chaldee's  sages  rove 

O'er  all  the  starry  plain, 
And  all  the  shining  world  explore, 

Sought  out  till  now  in  vain  — 
What  boots  it,  if  its  brightest  gem 

Heaven  give  not  to  my  eyes  — 
And  ne'er  to  my  ecstatic  view 

The  Star  of  Jacob  rise  ? 


197 


SHALL  WE    KNOW   EACH   OTHER    IN 
HEAVEN? 

If,  in  that  world  of  spotless  light, 

Where  good  men  dwell  for  ever, 
Those,  with  whom  here  I  took  delight, 

Shall  greet  my  warm  love  never —  ^. 

Its  joys,  which  eye  has  seen  not,  ear 

Heard  not,  will  be  most  precious  ; 
Yet  loving  those,  the  true  loved  here, 

Would  make  heaven  more  delicious. 

If,  treading  yonder  crystal  street, 

Thoughts,  linked  with  time,  come  o'er  me, 
And  forms  of  earth  I  longed  to  greet, 

Should  pass  unknown  before  me  ; 
My  partner,  with  no  glance  of  love  — 

My  meek-eyed  child,  a  stranger  — 
Should  I  not  turn  from  bowers  above, 

A  sad  and  silent  ranger  ? 

God,  who  did  give  to  Love's  sweet  star, 

Below,  its  joyous  lustre, 
Can  bid  its  ^lories  shine  afar 

Where  best  affections  cluster  j 
And  I'll  believe  the  bliss  whose  birth 

He  spake,  so  fair  and  vernal, 
Undimmed,  unfaded,  here  on  earth, 

Like  Him,  will  be  eternal. 

V 


198 


LET   ME   LIVE   TILL   I   AM   OLD 

Let  me  live  till  I  am  old  ! 

Death,  though  still  in  manhood's  prime, 
I  would  meet,  as  meets  the  bold, 

Yet  I  fain  would  "  'bide  my  time." 
What  are  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Scarcely  span  enough  to  kiss 
j  Tears  from  off  Life's  blessings  :   the 

Let  me  gather  all  Life's  bliss. 
'Tis  a  little  leaf,  at  best, 

Which  for  ever  I  may  spell 

Of  Life's  doings,  ill  or  well, — 
When  among  the  stars  I  rest, 
Measured  by  its  sands  of  gold, 

When  eternal  day  I  tell. 
Let  me  live  till  I  am  old  ! 

No  !  Religion  quickly  cries  ; 

Life  hath  thorns  as  well  as  roses. 

Death  the  earlier  glimpse  discloses, 
Unto  him  that  early  dies, 
Of  the  peaceful  paradise, 
Where  sufhceth  thought  to  dwell  — 
Pausing  'mid  that  thunder  song  — 
On  the  path,  or  brief  or  long  — 

Trod  with  joy,  in  sorrow  trod, 

Meeting  pleasure  or  the  rod  ; 
'Tis  the  same.     In  heaven  'tis  well, 

If  on  earth  we  walked  with  God- 


199 


THE   DEAD. 

Buried  once,  the  sleeping  dust, 
Let  not  changes,  let  not  lust 
Of  reward,  tempt  hirelings  rude, 
To  disturb  its  solitude, 
In  its  coffin,  in  the  clay, 
Hidden  from  the  gaze  of  day,  — 
Where  upon  the  mouldering  mass 
Groweth  the  luxuriant  grass, 
Where  the  spotted  grave  cloth  cleaveth 
To  the  bosom  that  ne'er  heaveth  ; 
Where  the  snail  his  slimy  trace 
Leaves  on  the  unshrinking  face  ; 
Where,  with  sad  corruption,  pride 
Lieth  nestling,  side  by  side, 
Saying  to  it,  Hail,  my  mother  ! 
To  the  worm,  My  sister  !  brother  !  — 
Where  the  schemes  and  hopes  of  man 
Are  within  a  little  span  ; 
Where  forgot  are  love  and  hate  ; 
Where  the  beggar  finds  his  mate 
In  the  prince,  and  beauty  sleeps  — 
Though  the  sluggish  vapor  creeps 
Round  her  with  unwholesome  chill ; 
Where  the  weary  takes  his  fill 
Of  unbroken  dreamless  rest, 
Though  the  clod  is  on  his  breast ; 
Where  the  sons  of  Adam  lie 
Moveless  —  till  the  melted  sky 


200 

Mingles  with  the  deep,  and  earth 
Yields  them  once  again  to  birth, 
Ready  — past  death's  night  away  — 
For  the  final  judgment  day. 
Till  then  —  undisturbed  be 
All  that  is  mortality. 
Till  then,  Avarice  !  spare  the  grave 
Till  then,  look  not  on  the  slave 

Shrouded  here,  ye  curious  eyes  ! 

Spare  his  dust  the  outrage,  cries 
Decency  ;  such  deed  of  night 
Grieves  the  heart  and  sickens  sight. 


THE    SAILOR   BOY. 

Arise,  oh,  Lord  !  look  kindly  on  the  deep 

Dark  waters,  which  thy  mighty  hand  outflung ; 

Whose  wond'rous,  awful  beauty  bards  have  sung 

And  still  exhausted  not.     While  thy  winds  sweep 

Their  moaning  surface,  and  the  billows  leap 

Up  to  the  heavens  :  when  the  storm's  knell  is  rung, 

And  every  wave,  tumultuous,  hath  a  tongue 

Telling  of  God,  who  can  its  fury  keep 

And  who  doth  give  it  bridle  —  oh,  look  down 

In  pity  on  that  far  off  widow's  joy  — 

Her  only  hope,  her  comfort !     Do  not  frown 

Upon  her  prayer  at  this  rough  midnight  hour  ; 

But  speak  !  and  spoil  the  dreadful  tempest's  power, 

And  spare  to  her  lone  love  her  Sailor  Boy  ! 


201 


FUNERAL   OF   BISHOP   WHITE. 

What  meaneth  this  great  concourse  ?  Yet  they  come, 

Crowds  gathering  on  crowds.     It  is  not  festival  — 

It  looketh  not  like  mirth.     Subdued  and  still 

Men  range  themselves,  and  every  face  doth  wear 

Expression  of  deep  grief.     'Tis  scarce  high  noon, 

Yet  is  the  daily  hum  of  voices  hushed  ; 

Footsteps  fall  lightly,  as  'twere  holy  time ; 

Labor  doth  pause,  and  Commerce  rests  his  wheel ; 

The  merchant's  not  on  change  —  the  shop  is  shut 

Of  artisan.     Unwonted  silence  reigns, 

And  hither  on  his  journey  comes  the  dead  ! 

By  reverend  presbyters  and  fathers  borne, 

By  numerous  footsteps  of  bereaved  men, 

And  by  the  blessings  of  a  people  followed, 

Full  of  ripe  years  and  honors,  to  the  tomb 

Goeth  a  good  old  man  —  the  patriarch 

Of  ninety  winters. 

Is  the  Bishop  dead? 
Yes,  in  his  season,  like  a  shock  of  corn, 
Ripe,  fully,  he  is  gathered.     We  may  mourn 
That  he  no  more  is  of  us  ;  and  yet  tears 
Seldom  are  blended  with  so  much  of  joy, 
At  recollection  of  departed  worth. 
No  more  may  he,  in  deep  humility, 
Plead  for  his  Master.     Counsels  fraught  with  love, 
Shall  from  his  lips,  like  dew,  distil  no  more. 


202 

No  more  that  form,  majestic,  shall  be  seen, 
Relic  of  by-gone  days  —  within  our  streets, 
Awing  the  base,  and  gladdening  the  good. 
That  form  is  in  the  dust.     He  hath  laid  by 
The  mitre,  to  put  on  a  heavenly  crown  — 
The  earthly  lawn,  to  wear  immortal  robes. 
Go  to  thy  grave,  blest  prelate  !  there  are  few 
Lie  down  so  peacefully.     A  Church  in  tears 
Attests  our  love,  the  smiles  of  opening  heaven 
Show  for  thee,  God's  approval.     Sainted  one  ! 
May  we  depart  as  happily,  as  safe. 
Philadetyhia,  1836. 


BRUTALITY. 

I  saw  two  dogs,  in  open  street,  one  day, 

Fighting  most  madly.  They  were  very  strong, 
Well  shaped  and  active  ;  and  they  fiercely  shook 
And  bit  each  other,  till  their  strength  gave  way. 

They  were  cheered  on  again  by  a  vile  throng 
Of  men  and  vagrant  boys,  who  idly  took 
Sides  in  the  battle  ;  betting,  some  on  Dick, 
And  some  on  generous  Neptune.     Sick 

At  heart,  and  weary  of  my  race,  I  said  : 
"  Which  of  the  animals  is  noblest  —  he 

Whose  savage  cruelty  is  basely  fed 
By  pain  and  blood,  and  who  is  pleased  to  see 
Flesh  torn  and  quivering  in  eager  fight,  — 
Or  him,  the  misnamed  brute  ?     The  brute,  in  reason' 

sight." 


203 

THE   SANDWICH   ISLES. 

On  the  late  intelligence  of  many  conversions  there. 

The  Sandwich  Isles  !  the  Sandwich  Isles  ! 
How  fair  on  ocean's  breast  they  seem, 
Reflecting  the  immortal  smiles 
Which  from  the  Source  of  glory  beam. 
Oh,  'twas  not  thus  the  ages  gone, 
When  they  in  error's  night  lay  dim, 
God's  jewels,  that  in  silence  shone 
Most  beautiful,  yet  not  for  Him. 

The  Sandwich  Isles  !  —  as  in  a  glass, 
Their  dark-eyed  sons  rise  up  to  me, 
No  longer  pagan  ;  —  while  they  pass 
From  O-a-hu  and  O-why-hee, 
I  mark  their  faces  shorn  of  shame, 
Like  glorious  men  who  spurn  the  dust, — 
The  last  to  know  of  Freedom's  name, 
But  in  her  lofty  triumphs  first. 

The  Sandwich  Isles  !  their  coral  coasts, 
Their  fairy  dales,  and  hills,  and  plains, 
Have  echoed  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts 
Redemption's  never-tiring  strains. 
Oh,  how  unlike  the  savage  song 
Which  o'er  them  once  to  idols  rung, 
When  madness  seized  the  tossing  throng, 
And  blasphemy  defiled  the  tongue. 


204 

The  Sandwich  Isles  !  where  from  the  breast 
The  mother  plucked  her  clinging  child, 
And  hushed  its  little  woes  to  rest 
In  blood  —  Oh,  God,  how  sweetly  wild 
The  mother's  hymn  ascends  to  Thee  ! 
And  who  that  mother's  joy  may  tell, 
As  with  her  child  she  bends  the  knee 
At  summons  of  the  Sabbath  bell  ! 

The  Sandwich  Isles  ! — each  laden  breeze 
Brings  token  of  rich  fragrance  there  ; 
I  scent,  across  the  surging  seas, 
The  aroma  of  new-born  prayer. 
Oh,  give  me  wings  !  my  soul  would  flee 
To  regions  where  the  Spirit  smiles  ; 
'Tis  midnight  here  —  'tis  morn  with  ye, 
The  Sandwich  Isles  !  the  Sandwich  Isles  ! 

1839. 


MORTALITY  — IMMORTALITY. 

I  saw  some  workmen  toil,  the  other  day, — 

'Twas  in  St.  Mary's  churchyard  —  on  a  tomb 

Which  they  were  rearing  for  new  tenantry. 

And  to  prepare  it  they  had  digged  a  vault 

Some  six  feet  square,  and  more  than  twice  that  depth, 

Just  in  the  heart  of  this  dense  burial  place, 

Where  every  foot  of  the  rich  earth  is  fattened 


205 


With  human  dust ;  and  bones  lie  intermixed 
With  the  green  mould,  as  thickly  as  in  charnels. 
The  men  were  somewhat  rough,- — over  their  task 
Swearing  and  jesting,  making  plenteous  mirth 
Of  the  poor  fragments  which  they  shovelled  up. 
So  I  approached  them  timidly,  and  looked, 
And  saw,  along  the  sides  of  the  deep  trench, 
Dark  niches,  each  of  which  had  been  a  grave  ; 
And  some  were  empty.     As  I  gazed,  I  saw 
A  coffin  at  full  length,  embedded  fast 
In  the  hard  clay.     The  sharp  spade  in  descent 
Had  shaven  off  the  side  of  the  deal  chest, 
Admitting  daylight  on  the  sleeping  dead. 
And  what  a  sight  !  —  In  duskiness  and  damp, 
Mildew,  and  noisomeness  of  sad  decay, 
Reclined  the  skeleton.     It  had  been  there 
For  years  —  the  flesh  all  gone,  the  crumbling  bones 
Disjointed.     Long  ago  the  pampered  worm 
Had  had  his  feast,  and  died.     Years  had  rolled  by 
Since,  with  the  tears  of  kindred,  these  remains 
Were  lodged  in  their  dark  chamber  ;  those  who  wept 
Had  also  gone.  —  None  told  me  of  the  dead. 
I  closely  looked,  and  saw  what  once  had  been 
Another  coffin  ;  but  the  turning  up 
Rudely,  of  the  heaped  earth  had  crushed  it  in ; 
And  coffin,  bones,  and  dust  were  blended  all 
In  loathesomeness.     Apart,  I  saw  the  skull ;  — 
Twas  small  and  delicate  —  and  the  next  spade 
Threw  up  a  mass  of  long  disshevelled  hair. 


206 


It  was  a  woman's  form  that  thus  was  flung 

Carelessly  from  its  bed  to  open  day. 

The  hair  was  firm,  luxuriant,  and  beautiful, 

And  still  retained  its  glossy,  golden  hue, 

Even  in  decay,  and  saturate  with  damps. 

Once  it  descended  on  an  ivory  neck, 

And  the  young  wearer  little  deemed  that  plucked 

From  the  fair  head  on  which  it  grew,  'twould  serve 

To  fill  the  shovel  of  a  laborer. 

And  little  recked  she,  tresses,  among  which 

The  fingers  of  a  lover  once  had  played 

Delightedly,  should  be  the  sport  of  such, 

And  thus  be  tossed  and  handled,  and  let  fall 

Quickly,  as  they  were  poisonous.     Away 

I  went,  and  pondered  my  mortality. 

*  ****** 

I  held  his  hand  — 
'Twas  chilly  cold,  yet  softly  he  returned 
My  pressure.     On  his  pallid  brow  sat  damps, 
And  on  his  quivering  lips  the  dew  of  death 
Had  gathered.     Over  him  his  anxious  wife 
Leaned  tearfully.     His  little  ones  were  there  ; 
And  silent  neighbors  stood  apart  to  see 
How  manfully  the  Christian  might  gird  up 
His  loins  and  welcome  death. 

I  asked  him  then 
Of  hopes  beyond  the  grave.     If  in  this  hour 
Its  Conqueror  was  nigh,  and  if  he  saw 
With  Faith's  clear  ken,  the  Star  that  ever  bums 


207 


Upon  the  tomb's  dark  confines,  still  to  cheer 
The  soul,  departing  ;  and  if  aught  he  heard 
Of  music,  which  breaks  forth  celestially 
On  ears  that  unto  earth  are  shut  ?  And  these  — 
His  precious  ones  —  could  he  leave  these  ?    He  looked 
Most  sweetly  upward,  murmuring  gently,  "  All, 
All,  all  for  Christ  !  —  Grave,  where's  thy  victory  ? 
Oh,  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  "  —  and  peacefully, 
With  that  last  word,  he  fell  asleep.     I  thought 
The  narrow  house  for  him  could  have  no  dread  ; 
He  feared  not  death,  nor  sad  corruption.     He'll 
Sleep  very  pleasantly  where  Jesus  slept ;  — 
His  mortal  immortality  puts  on. 
Philadelphia,  1636. 


EARLY   CONSECRATION. 

Thou  hast  the  dew  of  thy  youth.  —  Psalmist. 

Intact  !  upon  the  mother's  breast, 

God  gave  thee  life  and  limb, 
And  we,  whom  thy  first  smile  has  blest, 

Do  yield  thee  back  to  Him  — 
A  beauteous  flower,  on  which  the  dew 

Of  love  may  freshly  lie  ; 
Content,  if  grace  may  thee  renew, 

And  fit  thee  for  the  sky. 


208 

Child  !  that  to  hours  of  busy  play 

Dost  health  and  gladness  bring  — 
That,  tireless,  seem'st  all  summer  day 

A  blithe  bird  on  the  wing  — 
Thou  surely  art  a  gift  to  bless 

The  earth,  by  sorrow  trod, 
And  yet  thy  wealth  of  happiness 

We  consecrate  to  God. 

Youth  !  that  with  careless  step  dost  tread 

The  flowery  road  of  bliss, 
And  shunning  brighter  worlds,  art  led 

To  seek  thy  heaven  in  this, — 
We  watch  thy  wayward  way  with  pain, 

And  asking  mightier  care 
To  guard  thy  inexperience,  fain 

Would  yield  thee  up  in  prayer. 

Oh,  as  we  ponder  o'er  the  path 

Which  ye,  alone,  must  walk, 
And  mark  where  skies  are  mustering  wrath, 

And  storms  together  talk,  — 
Remembering  He  who  safely  guides 

The  wrack,  is  round  ye  too, 
That  He  life's  twilight  kindly  bides 

To  whom  was  given  its  dew  — 

We  gather  round  His  shielding  love, 

And  weep  as  we  draw  near  ; 
There  is  no  studded  crown  above 

So  precious  as  that  tear. 


209 

Yet,  in  His  presence,  words  are  weak, 

Desire  is  mighty,  we 
Ask  boon  that  Time  can  never  speak, 

That  means  Eternity. 

Even  angels  look — such  offering  paid, 

Where  love  intense  has  part  — 
To  see  it  on  that  altar  laid, 

An  anxious  mother's  heart ;  — 
Acceptable  to  God,  who  strung 

Each  fine  mysterious  string  ; 
And  who,  to  move  the  thoughtless  young, 

Doth  touch  the  hidden  spring. 


MANY   WAYS. 

Many  ways,  Jehovah  !  Thou 
Hast  to  make  the  sinner  bow  ; 
Many  gracious  ways  to  bring 
Home  the  lost  and  wandering  — 
Journeyers  in  forbidden  roads, 
Whom  a  guilty  conscience  goads 
And  the  thoughtless,  who  is  free 
From  its  stingings,  Lord,  to  thee 
Thou  dost  win  in  many  ways, 
And  to  thee  be  all  the  praise  ! 
Some  thou  callest  in  a  tone 
Musical  as  Mercy's  own. 
14 


210 

Sweet  the  harmonies  that  tell 
Of  forgiveness,  then  ;  —  a  spell 
Is  upon  the  spirit  riven, 
Not  of  earth,  but  all  of  heaven. 
Some  thou  callest  by  the  loud 
Thunderings  of  thy  judgment  cloud  ; 
When  the  midnight  volleying  peal 
Doth  to  quickened  thought  reveal 
All  of  vileness,  dared  and  done, 
All  of  utter  ruin  won. 
When  transgressors,  that  were  wooing 
Pleasure  to  the  soul's  undoing, 
Pause,  bewildered  —  look  within, 
Look  to  Christ,  and  leave  their  sin. 
By  the  path  of  sorrow,  thou 
Leadest  stricken  parents  now  ; 
She  who  bendeth  silently 
O'er  the  child  that  soon  must  die, 
Thou  dost  call  in  every  groan 
Of  that  sufferer,  to  her  own 
Keener  anguish  answering, — 
Thou  in  bitterness  dost  bring, 
That  she  may  of  mercy  sing, 
And  from  flowerets  of  the  tomb 
Turn  to  trees  of  living  bloom. 
Some  by  sickness  thou  dost  call, — 
Some,  above  a  buried  friend, 
Ponder  on  their  latter  end. 
Others,  shuddering  at  the  pall, 
Winding  sheet,  and  sepulchre, 
Turn  to  thee.     Amid  the  stir 


211 

Of  the  busy  multitude, 

Some  —  and  some  in  solitude  ; 

Some,  in  visions  of  the  night ; 

Some,  when  basking  in  the  bright 

Beamings  of  prosperity ; 

Some  in  abject  poverty. 

Some  —  filled  up  existence'  page  — 

Thou  dost  call  in  wintry  age  ; 

Some  —  most  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

Offer  thee  their  vernal  hours. 

Some,  in  their  ancestral  halls, 

Some,  as  beggared  prodigals  ; 

Some,  the  anxious  father's  care, 

Poured  out  in  the  midnight  prayer  ; 

Some,  a  mother's  quiet  tear 

To  the  kingdom  bringeth  near. 

Plaintive  hymn  dissolves  that  soul, 

This,  the  noble  organ's  roll ; 

Some,  a  single  caution  wins  ; 

This  one  stops,  in  view  of  sins 

Raging  round  him  like  a  flood, 

And  rebuked,  alarmed,  to  God 

Flies  he  in  the  troublous  hour, 

Only  safe  with  Sovereign  Power, 

Some,  within  their  cedar  rooms, 

Others,  wrapt  in  dungeon  glooms. 

Some,  whose  lot  with  thrones  is  cast, 

Some,  upon  the  giddy  mast ; 

Some,  before  the  public  gaze, 

Some,  in  secret.     Many  ways 

Of  compassion,  Lord  !  hast  thou  ! 

Teaching  rebel  men  to  bow  ; 


212 

Many  ways  to  bring  to  thee 
Wilful  heart  and  stubborn  knee  ; 
Many  ways  to  lead  above  :  — 
Oh,  for  ways  to  praise  thy  love  ! 


THE   PERFECTIONIST.* 

Go,  proud  Perfectionist !   approach  the  throne 
Wrapt  in  thy  self- wrought  righteousness  alone  ; 
And  scorning  thus  the  Saviour's  crimsoned  robe, 
Look  greatly  down  on  Paul,  Isaiah,  and  Job. 
Bidding  him  stand  apart,  who,  in  his  need, 
Craved  from  Sin's  loathsome  body  to  be  freed. 
Deriding,  in  thy  purity,  the  cry 
That  burst  impassioned,  when  the  prophet's  eye 
Saw  glimpse  of  those  that  company  above, — 
How  pure  the  lips  that  warble  matchless  love  ! 
How  vile  his  own  !  —  Spurn  him  who  felt  the  rod, 
And  yet,  in  all,  sinned  not,  nor  idly  charged  his  God. 
Do  this,  and  as  thou  proudly  livest,  as  proudly  die, 
And  be  alone  !  —  Thou  mayest  not  sit  on  high 
With  those  that  washed  in  blood  their  raiment  white, 
The  dwellers  now  in  uncreated  light. 
No  !  while  they  touch  the  glowing  chords  of  love, 
Another  harp  'tis  thine  to  take  above. 


*  A  representative  of  the  sect  which  appeared  a  few  years  since 
in  the  western  part  of  New  York  state  —  repudiators  of  the  Bible 
and  the  ordinances  of  the  gospel. 


213 


They  to  their  Saviour  wake  the  golden  string, 

Thou,  to  thy  task,  wilt  thy  Perfection  bring. 

While  the  redeemed  ones  joyfully  cast  down 

Before  Messiah's  palm  and  starry  crown, 

Thou  icilt  wear  thine,  as  comfortless  thou'lt  stand, 

Far  from  the  humble  yet  exalted  band  ; 

And,  shunning  all  its  joys  and  splendors  given, 

In  thy  own  self  wilt  find  thy  cheerless  heaven. 

Oh,  weep  betimes,  and  leaving  all  thy  pride, 

With  us  make  only  boast,  that  Jests  died  ! 


THE   BUNKER   HILL   PILE. 

Time  was,  when  men,  to  keep  in  memory 

Brave  deeds  of  their  old  fathers,  on  this  spot, 
Where  battle  in  just  quarrel  once  was  hot  — 

Said,  that  hewn  stone  should  rise,  and  ever  be 

A  record  of  their  daring,  who  did  meet 
The  Briton  in  unequal,  bloody  fight, 
Strong  in  the  cause  of  Country,  God,  and  B-ight, 

And  won  their  victory  in  a  proud  retreat. 

Now,  (such  the  loftier  triumph  of  sweet  Peace,) 
The  work,  like  troubled  Babel,  is  at  stand. 
Long  be  it  thus  !  —  No  monument  our  land 

Asks,  their  memorial,  save  the  sure  increase 
Of  glad  prosperity,  that  still  doth  wait 

The  unambitious  Free,  the  virtuous  State. 


214 


VERSES   FOR  A   TEMPERANCE 
SOCIETY. 

Bring  garlands  !     Time  shall  heedless  slip 
In  pleasure,  while  we  wreaths  entwine  ; 
Bring  goblets  !  —  as  he  flies,  the  lip 
We'll  press  unto  the  rosy  wine. 
And  we  will  laugh,  for  life's  a  dream, 
Its  cares  not  worth  a  passing  sigh  ; 
Be  mirth  and  wine,  to-day,  our  theme, 
To-morrow  we,  perchance,  may  die  ! 

Such  was  the  song  the  Syren  sung 
Ten  years  ago,  to  thoughtless  men  ; 
And  such  the  fetters  that  she  flung, 
Concealed  in  flowers,  around  them  then. 
The  song  is  hushed,  or  banished,  now, 
To  haunts  by  vile  inebriates  trod  ; 
To  wine  the  wise  no  longer  bow, 
The  chain  is  broke,  we  thank  thee,  God  ! 

Yes,  we  are  free  !  —  but  who  are  these, 

The  bloated,  brutish,  shackled  crew, 

All  night  who  tarry  at  the  lees, 

With  morning  who  the  cup  renew  ? 

Ah  !  they  are  Men,  though  sadly  sold 

To  death  that  stings  beyond  the  grave  ; 

Our  brethren,  —  minds  that  thou  didst  mould, 

Oh,  God  !  shall  we  not  haste  to  save  ? 


215 


THE   MOTHER   OF   LYMAN.* 

The  mother  of  Lyman,  said  Rev.  Dr.  Humphrey,  was  a  ueigh- 
hor  of  his  own,  and  some  time  before  the  news  arrived  of  the  ca- 
tastrophe among  the  Battas,  she  had  lost  her  husband,  who  died 
suddenly  and  left  her  in  charge  cf  a  large  family.  This  widowed 
mother  had  scarcely  returned  from  pouring  out  her  tears  over  the 
grave  of  her  protector  and  guide,  when  the  intelligence  arrived. 
It  had  been  brought  first  to  himself,  and  he  had  been,  in  conse- 
quence, requested  to  go  and  make  to  her  the  dreadful  annuncia- 
tion. "  I  trembled,"  said  Dr.  II.,  "  as  I  went,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self, how  will  this  mother,  a  widow  in  her  weeds,  with  the  tears 
hardly  dry  upon  her  cheek  from  the  sudden  loss  of  her  husband, 
how  will  she,  how  can  she  receive  this  intelligence!  I  went, 
and  communicated  it  in  the  best  way  I  could.  The  tears  flowed 
freely,  it  is  true  ;  but  oh  !  what  light  shone  through  those  tears  ! 
Almost  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  say  any  thing,  she  exclaimed  — 
« I  bless  God  who  gave  me  such  a  son  to  go  to  the  heathen,  and 
I  never  felt  so  strongly  as  I  do  at  this  moment,  the  desire  that 
some  other  of  my  sons  may  become  missionaries  also,  and  may 
go  and  teach  the  truths  of  the  Bible  to  those  savage  men  who 
have  drunk  the  blood  of  my  son.'  " 

Poets,  emulous  of  glory, 
Love  to  tell  the  hero's  story, — 
Love  to  wake  the  martial  cry, 
"  On,  to  death  or  victory  !  " 
Then,  in  panegyric  verse, 
Proud  Ambition's  deeds  rehearse. 
Passing  /«c,  the  peaceful  lays 
Strung  to  lowly  Virtue's  praise  ; 
Passing  feic,  the  plaudits  given 
To  the  deeds  that  breathe  of  heaven. 

*  A  missionary  who  was  killed  by  the  natives  of  Sumatra,  in 
1835. 


216 

Yet,  above  the  praise  of  men, 
Looked  our  Lyman's  mother,  when 
Tidings  from  the  heathen  came, 
That  another  glorious  name, 
That  another  noble  soul 
Lives  upon  the  martyr's  scroll, — 
Garnered  safely  —  warfare  done  — 
And  that  blest  one  is  her  son  ! 

Yes,  her  spirit's  thought  had  birth 

Elsewhere,  than  with  things  of  earth. 

For  earth  never  could  impart 

So  magnanimous  a  heart. 

Pagan  page  may  never  tell 

Of  a  votary,  who  so  well 

Sacrifice  of  self  could  make, 

For  the  God  of  Worship's  sake. 

Self-devotion,  holy,  true, 

Which  the  Roman  never  knew  ; 

Self-devotion,  all  unpriced, 

Which  adorns  the  men  of  Christ,  — 

Self-devotion  stayed  her  so, 

When  the  sufferer  in  her  wo, 

Widowed  yesterday  —  first  knew 

She  was  written  childless,  too. 

Grief  flows  freely  as  she  hears, 

Yet  a  light  shines  through  those  tears  ; 

And  her  praises  unto  God  — 

Who  with  blossoms  clothes  the  rod  — 

Who  from  bitter,  sweetness  brings  — 

She,  a  Christian  mother,  sings. 


217 

Glorying  in  such  a  son, 
Glorying  that  she  had  one 
Freely  willing  to  be  spent 
In  the  distant  Orient ;  — 
Willing,  in  his  early  spring, 
Blooming  buds  and  flowers  to  bring, 
Sacrifice  of  sweetest  smell, 
Which  Jehovah  loveth  well. 

Who,  hereafter,  doubts  the  world 
Shall,  one  day,  behold  unfurled 
Banners  of  our  King  ? —  Who  fears 
For  His  righteous  cause,  that  hears 
Of  this  mother's  quenchless  zeal  ? 
Who,  that  heareth,  will  not  feel 
Stirrings  of  the  soul,  engaging 
Him  to  go  where  strife  is  raging,  — 
Buckling  on  the  sword  and  shield, 
Burning  for  the  victor's  field  ? 


YOUTH'S   TEMPERANCE   ODE. 

We've  heard  that  round  the  wine-cup's  brim, 

A  thousand  pleasures  stray, 
And  that  strong  drinks  have  wondrous  power 

To  drive  dull  care  away  ;  — 


218 

But  we  have  seen  the  flashing  light 

Which  from  the  goblet  came, 
Lead,  like  the  meteor,  on  to  tears, 

And  wretchedness,  and  shame. 

We've  heard  that  though  'tis  well  enough 

For  men  the  pledge  to  sign, 
Yet  youth  need  never  be  in  haste 

Their  freedom  to  resign  ; 
But  we  are  sure,  ill  habits  formed 

In  youth,  destroy  the  man  : 
And  we'll  secure  us  from  the  snare 

Thus  woven,  if  we  can. 

Ay,  let  him  boast  of  freedom,  who 

To  appetite's  a  slave, 
And  in  that  war  for  poverty 

And  ruin,  is  so  brave  ! 
'Twill  serve  his  comrades,  who,  like  him, 

Are  fettered  by  the  curse  ; 
But  coaxing,  fooling,  will  not  do 

For  Temperance  Boys  like  us  ! 

The  children  in  Chaldea's  court, 

Who  would  not  drink  the  wine, 
Not  only  fair  in  flesh  were  seen, 

But  wisdom  had,  divine. 
Like  them,  we  choose  the  generous  draught, 

God's  cool,  sweet  springs  supply  ; 
And  at  the  last,  those  streams,  of  which 

Who  drink,  shall  never  die  ! 


219 


THE   ELEVENTH   HOUR. 

ILLUSTRATING    A    PICTURE    OF    A    DEATHBED    SCENE. 

Was  it,  that  I  shunned  repose, 

Sat  up  late,  and  early  rose, 

Eat  the  bread  of  carefulness, 

And  denied  my  soul  each  good 

With  which  Heaven  is  wont  to  bless  — 

In  my  raiment,  in  my  food, 

In  my  labors,  in  my  pleasures, 

Studying  to  increase  my  treasures ; 

Stranger  unto  pleasant  mirth, 

Stranger  unto  all  that  earth 

Deems  most  innocent,  that  I 

Must  o;er  disappointment  sigh? 

Why  did  boundless  Fancy  wander  — 

Why  did  halcyon  Hope  beyond  her 

Go,  in  hourly  dreams  of  gold  ? 

Was  it  that  I  might  be  sold 

Unto  keen  remorse — the  sting, 

Never  dying,  of  the  heart, 

In  which  Grace  hath  never  part ! 

Far  beyond  the  enchanting  cup 

Which  gay  Pleasure  mixes  up  — 

Far  beyond  Ambition's  bliss, 

Purchased  from  a  world  like  this, — 


220 

By  the  lost  in  folly's  whirl, 
Who  for  baubles  gives  the  pearl 
Of  the  never-sated  spirit  — 
Yes,  beyond  all,  to  inherit 
Bliss,  I  thought  was  surely  mine, 
When  I  knelt  at  Mammon's  shrine, 
And  with  still,  mysterious  stealth, 
Gazed  upon  the  heaped  up  wealth  — 
Gloated  on  the  golden  pile 
With  a  stern  and  secret  smile. 
Mighty  were  my  schemings  ;  then 
Was  I  mightiest  of  men. — 
Promising  my  morning,  soon 
Came  a  cloud,  and  at  my  noon 
Fate  was  in  conspiracy 
To  shroud  o'er  my  evening  sky. 
Quickly  was  I  called  away 
From  those  visions  of  delight, 
To  behold  their  dire  decay, 
To  behold  the  winter's  blight 
Seizing  on  my  blossom  ;  —  God  ! 
Thou  didst  hold  an  angry  rod. 
Well  I  knew  thy  power  was  such, 
Joy  comes  springing  at  thy.  touch  ; 
Well  I  knew  thou  couldst  destroy, 
When  I  saw  my  smitten  hoy .' 
Hovering  o'er  my  dying  bed 
Ghosts  of  murdered  moments  stand 
Every  soothing  angel  fled ; 
Who  will  chase  the  hateful  band  ! 


221 

Thou  that  minist'rest  to  care, 

Temporal,  canst  thou  hush  despair  ? 

Thou  that  heal'st  the  body's  pain, 

Canst  thou  charm  back  peace  again  ? 

Thou,  that  holy  text  doth  bring, 

Canst  thou  stop  the  spirit's  wing  ! 

All  that  can  the  soul  concern, 

Of  that  onward,  dread  eterne  — 

All  that  can  harass,  alarm, 

All  that  may  death's  sting  disarm, 

All  that  God  to  man  hath  given 

Of  the  unrevealed  heaven  ; 

All  of  earth's  deceiving  schemes, 

All  that  realizes  dreams 

Of  infernal  horror  —  all 

Of  that  unnamed,  bitter  thrall  — 

Memory  wakened,  conscience  smarting, 

All  that  waits  the  mind,  departing 

To  the  mind's  appalling  doom, 

To  its  ever  living  tomb, — 

All  of  wasted  life  that's  past, 

All  the  future,  at  the  last 

Gathering  in  a  fearful  might, 

All  of  everlasting  night, 

All  of  tortured  body's  ill, 

All  of  unsubdued  will, 

All  that  was  and  is  to  be, 

All  of  vast  eternity, 

With  an  overwhelming  power, 

Crowded  in  the  eleventh  hour  ! 


222 


TRACT   VISITATION. 

How  simple,  godlike,  the  device  that  brings 

The  thought  in  contact  with  eternal  things  ! 

Such  is  the  Tract,  whose  silent  power  is  seen 

As  kindly  dew  upon  the  margent  green. 

Such  is  the  monthly  call,  when  counsel  given 

Confirms  the  faint,  the  erring  leads  to  Heaven, 

And  not  to  opulence  confined,  that  goes 

To  the  low  dwelling,  redolent  of  woes, 

Searches  out  want  —  unwearied,  by  the  bed 

Of  sickness  kneels,  and  bathes  the  aching  head ; 

And  points  the  dying  to  a  better  shore, 

Life's    ocean   passed  —  where    storms   shall   vex   no 

more. 
I've  seen  the  hovel,  o'er  whose  threshold  ne'er 
Came  minister  of  Christ.     No  herald  here 
Had  crossed  to  bind  the  broken  hearted  up  ; 
Its  inmate  drank  of  misery's  bitter  cup  : 
And  the  gay,  smiling  world  knew  not  his  grief — 
Yet  came  an  angel,  seeming,  with  relief. 
She,  with  a  Tract,  her  passport,  entered  there, 
And  soothed  the  sufferer  ;  lightened  every  care  ; 
And  having  won  his  love,  her  errand  gave 
Of  Him  who  only  can  the  sinner  save. 
Her  converse,  prayers,  were  blest,  and  he,  the  rod 
Had  failed  to  move,  by  love  was  brought  to  God. 


223 


HORTICULTURAL   GRAVEYARD. 

Who  would  be  buried  in  a  city  ?     Who 

Would  choose,  life's  labors  done,  to  lay  him  down 

In  the  scant  ground,  assigned  as  resting  place, 

Where  no  grass  grows  ?     Or  in  the  sullen  tomb, 

Loathsome,  and  sad,  to  be  inurned,  or  'neath 

The  solemn  church,  where  in  the  dusky  aisles 

Are  rows  of  vaults,  on  whose  dark,  dripping  doors 

Never  falls  sunbeam  ?     Sympathy  dwells  not 

In  crowded  towns  ;  —  there  Avarice  hath  its  reign. 

Avarice,  that  calculates  the  very  worth 

And  nice  proportion  of  each  petty  thing 

That  can  be  coined  to  gold.     Why,  I  have  seen 

In  this  good  city,  where  a  plot  of  land 

Two  hundred  years  ago  our  sires  had  given, 

To  this  most  sacred  purpose  consecrate  — 

Where  men  might  lay  their  dead  :  a  spot 

That  opened  to  the  breeze,  and  shaded,  too, 

By  cheerful  trees,  which  threw  their  shadow  o'er 

The  grassy  graves  —  now,  all  begirt  with  walls 

Tow'ring  to  heaven,  that  seem  to  covet  e'en 

The  niggard  space  allotted  to  the  dead. 

And  in  one  corner  of  this  holy  soil, 

With  thrift,  a  cunning  Yankee  had  him  made 

A  kitchen  garden  !     Yea,  I  saw  the  graves 

Teeming  with  corn  and  squash.     :Twas  sad  to  note 


224 


The  stalk  o'ertop  the  monuments,  and  vines 
Spreading  and  curling  round  the  stones  that  time 
Had  spared  for  ages  ;  —  spared,  to  be  thus  mocked 
By  calculating  plodders,  who  would  fain 
Eat  vegetables  gathered  from  the  bones 
Of  a  dead  father,  and  lick  up  the  food 
Grown  on  a  mother's  dust.     He  that  would  gaze 
On  such  perversion,  may  himself  betake 
To  the  King's  Chapel  burying  ground,  and  weep. 
July,  1839. 


CHARLES   RIVER. 

I  do  remember  thee,  transparent  stream  ! 

And  cause  there  is  that  I  should  sometimes  dwell 
Gratefully  on  the  season  loved  so  well  — 
Glances  of  which,  in  fancy's  witching  dream, 
Come  up  in  sober  manhood,  —  Childhood's  hour  ! 
When  wasted  with  disease,  my  languid  frame 
They  plunged  beneath  thy  waters.     Newly  came, 
By  oft-repeated  trial,  health  and  power 
To  my  unhopeful  system.     Strength  of  limb, 
And  renovated  life,  didst  thou  restore 
To  him  so  helpless  and  so  dead  before. 
For  this,  while  I  gaze  on  thee,  unto  Him 
Who  scooped  thy  winding  way,  and  fringed  thy  banks 
With  drapery  of  green,  I  render  joyful  thanks. 


225 


MONT   PILATRE. 

The  Proconsul  of  Jiulea  here  found  the  termination  of  his  impi- 
ous life;  having,  after  spending  years  in  the  recesses  of  this 
mountain,  which  hears  his  name,  at  length,  in  remorse  and  de- 
spair, rather  than  in  penitence,  plunged  into  the  dismal  lake 
which  occupies  the  summit.  —  Legend  in  Anne  of  Geierstein. 

When  Pilate  saw  that  he  could  prevail  nothing,  but  that  rather 
a  tumult  was  made,  he  took  water,  and  washed  his  hands  before 
the  multitude,  saying,  I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  just 
person  j  see  ye  to  it.  —  St.  Mattheic,  xxvii.  24. 

Immortal  infamy  is  his 

Who  gave  the  Saviour  up 
To  bear  the  Jewish  scourge  and  scorn, 

And  drink  the  Roman  cup. 
He  washed  his  hands  in  sight  of  men, 

And  slander  thought  to  kill, — 
Yet  was  he  foul,  and  to  this  hour 

His  hands  are  spotted  still. 

There's  something  of  audacious  crime 

In  guilty  Judas  found, 
Though  viler  than  the  vilest  thing 

That  crawls  upon  the  ground  ; 
But  he  who  had  not  fortitude 

In  trial's  honest  hour, 
To  own  the  outward  influence 

Of  conscience'  secret  power, 
15 


226 

And  whose  unfeeling,  coward  heart, 

Intent  on  selfish  ease, 
Did  seek,  with  sophistry  and  art, 

Both  God  and  Man  to  please, — 
Of  God  abhorred,  of  man  despised, 

And  shunned  by  fiends  below  — 
Where  shall  the  wretch,  to  hide  himself, 

And  hide  his  meanness,  go  ! 


NEW   ORGAN   IN   CHRIST   CHURCH, 
PHILADELPHIA. 

They've  reared  the  organ.     He,*  whose  fond  desire 
It  was  to  beautify  this  hoary  pile, 
Whose  voice  once  lingered  sweetly  in  its  aisle, 
Is  absent  from  the  service.     Lo,  this  spire, 
Antique  and  venerable,  looketh  down, 
As  for  a  century  it  hath,  upon  our  town ; 
The  doors  are  open  still ;  along  these  walls 
Swells  noble  minstrelsy  ;  but  now  no  calls 
Of  love,  persuasive,  from  his  lips  shall  come  — 
The  pastor  that  hath  wooed  for  Christ  is  dumb. 
Dumb  ?     No  !  his  song  is  where  ten  thousand  times 
Ten  thousand  bow  ;  where  the  melodious  chimes 
Sound,  as  abroad  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  roll, 
The  diapason  of  the  ransomed  soul  ! 

*  The  late  Rev.  J.  W.  James,  Rector  of  Christ  Church. 


227 


A   PSALM   OF   SICKNESS. 


But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design, 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolve, 

To  bear  and  not  repine.  —  Robert  Burns. 


Since  this,  my  couch,  a  battle  field 

Appointed  is  to  me, 
May  I,  all  armed  with  holiness, 

And  kindly  patience  be. 

While  noble  spirits  boldly  make 

Strong  onset  on  the  foe, 
May  I,  in  sufferance,  draw  the  sword, 

And  deal  as  sure  a  blow. 

If  I  shout  not,  where  trump  and  drum 
The  army's  triumphs  swell, 

In  the  soul's  solitude  I  may 
Of  equal  victory  tell. 

Not  less  may  these,  my  passive  pains, 

With  fortitude  received, 
Speak  honor  to  my  Prince,  than  all 

High  daring  hath  achieved. 


228 

Not  less  my  thankfulness  for  love, 
And  sympathy's  sweet  voice, 

Than  all  their  thunder-tones  of  praise, 
When  all  the  ranks  rejoice. 

Then,  sickness,  come  !  and  darting  pain, 
That  through  my  frame  do  fly  — 

For  final  ease,  I  welcome  ye  : 
To  live,  I  gladly  die. 

With  Him  who  leads  the  glorious  fray, 

Whose  favor  gives  renown, 
The  lowliest  bearer  of  the  cross, 

If  true,  shall  share  the  crown. 


EVERYS. 

Every  sorrow  here, 

Which  from  evil  seems  to  rise, 
If  it  start  contrition's  tear, 

Is  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Every  friend  that  grieves, 

By  frail  insincerity, 
Teacheth  of  a  Friend  that  leaves 

Never,  but  still  helpeth  me. 


229 

Every  vexing  stealth 

Fortune  maketh  of  my  goods, 
Only  bids  me  store  my  wealth 

Where  no  cunning  thief  intrudes. 

Every  babe  to  dust 

Given,  with  reluctant  pain, 
Is  but  my  Redeemer's  trust, 

Which  he  will  restore  again. 

Every  pang  that  gnaws 

Fiercely,  this  poor  frame  of  mine, 
If  but  sanctified,  me  draws 

Nearer  to  the  bliss  divine. 

Every  little  sand 

Loosened  by  this  stormy  strife, 
Minds  me  of  a  better  land, 

And  of  an  unreckoned  life. 

Every  living  thing 

Or  of  teeming  earth  or  flood, — 
Creeping,  walking,  on  the  wing  — 

Is  a  teacher  of  my  God. 

Every  star  that  burns 

On  night's  diadem, 
If  it  thought  to  Jesus  turns, 

Is  a  star  of  Bethlehem. 


230 


SELECT   REMAINS   OF   THE   REV 
WILLIAM   NEVINS,  D.  D. 

ON    READING    THE    ABOVE. 

Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould  ! 

Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 

That  these 

Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ?  —  Wordsworth. 

No  ! — there  are  gems  transcending  far 
These  glowing  thoughts  that  stream  and  shine, 
Each  like  a  sudden  sparkling  star 
Of  radiance  on  this  page  of  thine  : 
Gems  which  I  scan  with  fond  delight, 
More  precious  deemed  at  each  survey  — 
Beautiful  in  affliction's  night, 
Undimmed  in  pleasure's  prosperous  day. 

What  are  they  ? —  Worth,  which  well  I  knew,  - 

Thy  single,  comprehensive  heart, 

Open  to  the  discerning  few, 

In  whose  warm  pulse  mankind  had  part ; 

Thy  gentle  spirit,  foe  to  strife, 

That  graced  thy  manhood,  as  thy  youth  ; 

Thy  suavity  in  private  life, 

Thy  public  boldness  for  the  truth  ; 


231 

Thy  piety  and  zeal  for  God, 
Humility,  and  holy  care 
For  souls  ;  submission  to  the  rod, 
Denials,  watchfulness  and  prayer  : 
These,  though  confessed  thy  wisdom,  wit, 
And  eloquence  of  purest  powers, 
Are  thy  remains,  where  thou  dost  sit 
At  Jesus'  feet  —  may  such  be  ours  ! 


THOMAS  GREENE  FESSENDEN. 

Mount  Auburn,  as  a  miser,  gathers  wealth 
From  the  world's  heap  ;  not  artfully,  by  stealth, 
But  shamelessly  and  open.     Sits  he  now 
Alone,  in  winter's  drapery,  his  brow 
Circled  by  solemn  trees  ;  and  contemplates 
His  gains,  and  those  to  come  with  which  the  Fates 
Shall  swell  his  hoard,  already  rich  in  store, 
We  knew  not  how  to  part  with.     Yet  one  more 
Is  added.     Moral  excellence  and  wit, 
Talents,  not  idly  hid,  worth  that  would  sit 
Gracefully  on  a  king,  the  crown  adorning,  — 
These  have  been  stolen,  this  violence  hath  our  mourn- 
ing. 
Yet,  Plunderer  !  there's  hidden  in  thy  womb 
Nought  but  the  casket,  which,  at  trump  of  doom, 
Thou,  —  saith  the  oracle  of  God  —  shalt  render. 
The  jewel  lodged  above  !  —  who'll  tell  its  splendor  ? 


232 


THE  HARVEST  IS   GREAT  — THE   LA- 
BORERS  FEW. 

Vineyard  of  the  Lord  !  thy  treasures 
Plenteous  are  to  wondering  sight : 

How  the  laden  stalks  are  bending 
With  the  grain,  to  harvest  white  ! 

Wide  the  field  —  the  world  can  only- 
Bound  its  precincts.     Vast  the  prize  ;  — 

To  express  its  value,  ages 
Heaped  on  ages  can't  suffice. 

Who  will  enter  ?  —  Laborers,  toiling 

In  the  wasting  heat  of  day, 
Are  but  few  ;  and  of  these,  hourly, 

Perish  some  along  the  way. 
Who  will  enter  ?  —  Great  the  burden, 

Hard  and  constant  is  the  toil ; 
But  ye  serve  a  gracious  Master, 

And  he'll  give  you  princely  spoil. 

Wake,  oh,  north  wind  !  on  this  garden, 

Fainting,  dying,  strongly  blow  ; 
Come,  thou  south  !  and,  gently  breathing, 

Bid  its  spices  freely  flow. 
Then,  his  power  confessed,  the  Spirit 

Hearts  shall  touch,  and  sweetly  win  ;  — 
Vineyard  !  now,  to  reap  thy  harvest, 

Joyful  thousands  enter  in. 


233 


THOUGHTS. 

Oh,  why  should  this  poor  world  of  ours 
Bewilder  with  its  foolish  schemes  — 

Delight  with  its  decaying  flowers, 

And  cheat  me  with  its  empty  dreams  ? 

Have  I  one  object,  and  but  owe, 

That  solely  should  the  mind  engross  ? 

A  war  to  wage  —  a  race  to  run  — 
The  gold  to  sever  from  the  dross  — 

And,  in  this  narrow  inch  of  time, 
The  work  of  mighty  years  to  do  ? 

"Mid  these  low  thoughts,  a  theme  sublime 
To  ponder,  ever  vast  and  new  ?  — 

And  but  these  few,  fleet  days  of  strife 

To  gaze  in  retrospect  upon, 
Through  cycles  of  an  endless  life, 

While  all  its  ages  journey  on  ? 

Oh,  wondrous  God  !  shall  I  be  mad 
In  the  base  struggle,  or  for  gain, 

Or  honor,  pleasure,  good  and  bad, 
To  urge  it  with  desire,  insane  ? 


234 

Or  shall  I  change,  as  years  increase, 
The  ill  that's  past,  for  worse  to  come  — 

Pursue  with  tears  the  phantom,  peace, 
And  overtake  of  wo  the  sum  ? 

Nor  pause  upon  my  march  one  hour, 
My  march  that  with  the  grave  begins  — 

And  strive  to  snap,  with  frenzied  power, 
The  chain  that  binds  me  to  my  sins  ? 

Upon  the  topmast  sleeping  yet, 
Whence  down  to  depths  I  may  be  cast, 

Shall  I  dream  on,  and  still  forget 

The  port  which  I  must  make  at  last  ? 

Nor  listen  to  the  voice  that  weeps 
Above  the  storm,  in  hopeless  pain ; 

Nor  heed  the  wretches  o'er  whom  sweeps 
The  dark  and  melancholy  main  ? 

I'll  pause,  my  weary  soul,  one  hour ; 

For  thee  a  new  career  begins  ; 
I'll  strive  to  snap,  with  frenzied  power, 

The  chain  that  binds  me  to  my  sins. 

This  hour  !  this  hour  !     Oh,  no  ;  oh,  no  ; 

This  hour  eternity  may  be  : 
This  moment,  blessed  Lord,  I  go, 

From  sin  and  sin's  despair,  to  thee. 


235 


MILLENNIAL   HTM  N . 

Oh,  God,  to  Thee,  from  whom  so  long 
This  darkened  world  has  strayed,  inglorious, 

She  comes,  in  brightness  and  in  song, 

With  crowns  and  harps  for  thee,  victorious. 

From  where  flames  up  the  morning  sun, 

To  where  he  floods  the  west  with  beauty, — 

From  north  to  south,  not  one,  not  one 
Is  silent  in  this  hour  of  duty. 

Hear  !  as  on  Africa's  vast  plains 

Her  Sunday  schools  lisp  songs,  that  gladly 
Go  up,  where  once  were  stripes  and  chains, 

And  fraud  and  gold  that  triumphed  madly. 

Hear  China's  worship-wooing  bells  ! 

"  Celestial  "  now  —  whose  happy  nation, 
By  her  delivered  millions,  tells 

That  her  proud  wall  is  called  "  Salvation." 

And  see  !  the  lovely  isles  that  gem 
Old  ocean's  bosom,  fair  and  vernal, 

Are  jewels  in  the  diadem 

That  glory  wreaths  for  the  Eternal. 


236 


The  tree  of  life  yields  glad  perfume, 

With  fresh  buds  crowned,  and  choicest  flowers ; 
Knowledge  displays  its  living  bloom, 

Where  grace  dispenses  warmth  and  showers. 

Dove  of  the  Lord  !  Peace,  brooding,  sits 
Where  fiercely  flew  the  bird  of  glory  ; 

And  Waterloo  and  Austerlitz 
Live  only  in  ignoble  story. 

And,  quenched  the  latent  spark  of  rage, 

Hate  adds  no  more  to  party  fuel ; 
And  realms  are  ruled,  though  statesmen  wage 

No  war  of  words,  nor  war  with  duel. 

And  where  so  long  the  dreadful  whip 

Of  slavery  scourged  the  flesh,  red  reeking, 

Are  kindness,  love,  and  manhood's  lip, 
Of  holy,  heartfelt  Freedom  speaking. 

The  heavens,  in  gladness,  shout  to  Thee, 

And  earth,  in  bondage  lately  lying, 
Rings  back  the  cry,  "  We're  free  !  we're  free 

Her  vales,  rocks,  hills,  and  seas  replying. 

Earth  !   Earth  !  to  Christ,  (his  kingdom  won,) 
In  more  than  primal  beauty  given  — 

Sound  the  high  hymn  !  for  now  is  done 
His  will  on  earth,  as  done  in  heaven. 


237 


INSTALLATION. 

Who  shall,  with  blessing,  lift  abroad 
His  hand  unto  thy  holy  hill, — 
Be  shepherd  of  thy  chosen,  Lord, 
And  show  these  worshippers  thy  will  ? 

He  that  uprightly  walks,  and  works 
With  single  purpose,  righteousness  — 
In  whose  heart,  look,  or  language,  lurks 
Nor  folly,  pride,  nor  wickedness  : 

He,  nor  presuming,  rash,  nor  vain, 
Yet  strong,  because  he  always  fears  ;  — 
He,  that  repulsed,  will  urge  again 
For  God,  and  warn  and  win  with  tears  : 

He  that  will  keep,  with  toil  unpriced, 
His  skirts  from  blood,  and  souls  from  loss, 
He  that  will  nothing  know  save  Christ, 
And  the  sweet  science  of  the  cross ; 

Gently,  along  this  pleasant  way, 
The  aged  of  the  flock  shall  lead  ; 
And,  lest  the  little  lambs  should  stray, 
Will  them  by  fountains  guide  and  feed. 


238 

When  the  Chief  Shepherd  shall  appear, 
He  shall  appear  in  glory,  too  ; 
And  of  his  charge,  watched  over  here, 
Show  thousands,  brought  in  safety  through. 


AN  EARLY   DEATH. 


Death 

The  portal,  opening  into  Paradise  ; 

Where  grace,  that  in  the  bud  was  here  below, 

Into  the  flower  of  glory  straight  shall  blow. 

Francis  Taylor ;  1658. 

We  may  to  our  companion  go, 
And  strive  to  lessen  anguish  thus, 

While  softened  sorrows  freely  flow  — 
But  he  will  ne'er  return  to  us. 

We  may,  recalling  all  the  charms, 
And  solid  worth,  that  made  him  dear, 

Fold  round  his  form  affection's  arms, 
And  seem  to  hold  the  spirit  here. 

But  no  —  that  spirit  is  away  ; 

We  only  clasp  insensate  dust ;  — 
That  soars  in  uncreated  day, 

This  waits  the  rising  of  the  just. 


239 

Here,  now,  at  brief  corruption's  claim, 
How  slumbers  this  without  a  care  ; 

"  On  wheels  of  light,  on  wings  of  flame," 
How  that ,  for  aye,  expatiates  there ! 

And  can  it  be,  the  cheek  of  bloom, 

Which  spake  of  bliss,  and  days,  and  health, 

Is  pillowed  in  the  darksome  tomb, 
To  glut  the  worm's  insatiate  wealth  ? 

And  can  it  be,  that  eye  of  light 

Which  flashed  out  boyhood's  hope,  is  dim  ? 
And  shades  of  everlasting  night 

Have  lowered,  and  settled  down  on  him  ? 

And  can  it  be,  that  dulcet  voice, 

Which  captive  held  Refinement's  throng, 

And  wakened  tears,  and  bade  rejoice, 
Reveals  no  more  the  soul  of  song  ? 

We  fondly  ask,  if  all  that  gave 

To  parents,  friends,  associates,  joy, 

Can  sink  to  an  untimely  grave  ? 
Can  such,  Decay  indeed  destroy  ? 

We  ask,  dear  youth  !  and  from  the  sod 
Which  covers  all  that  late  was  fair, 

Turn  to  the  dwelling-place  of  God, 
Thy  home,  and  find  an  answer  there. 


240 


THE    WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 

I  gazed  upon  the  mountain's  top, 

That  pierced  in  twain  the  passing  cloud, 

And  wondered  at  its  giant  form, 
So  dark,  magnificent,  and  proud. 

Can  this  strong  mountain  from  its  base 
Be  shaken  by  the  tempest's  shock  ? 

Can  all  the  gathered  thunders,  stir 
This  everlasting,  solid  rock,  — 

And  scatter  forth  its  dust,  like  hail  ? 

And  fling  its  fragments  on  the  air  ? 
Can  aught,  created,  wield  such  strength  ? 

Exists  such  power  ?  —  Oh,  tell  me  where  ? 

They  may  remove,  these  mountains  may 
Tremble,  and  hence  for  ever  pass  ; 

These  hills,  that  pillar  up  the  skies, 
Perish,  as  doth  the  new-mown  grass. 

Yea,  saith  the  Lord,  they  shall  depart  — 
The  hills,  and  all  the  solid  land  ; 

But  my  sure  word  of  truth  remains, 
My  promise  shall  for  ever  stand. 
July  27,  1839. 


241 


THE   LEGACY. 

The  following  is  the  closing  paragraph  of  Patrick  Henry's  will : 
"  I  have  now  disposed  of  all  my  property  to  my  family ;  there  is 
one  thing  more  I  wish  I  could  give  them,  and  that  is  the  Christian 
religion.  If  they  had  this,  and  I  had  not  given  them  one  shilling, 
they  would  be  rich  ;  and  if  they  had  not  this,  and  I  had  given 
them  all  the  world,  they  would  be  poor." 

He  willed  them  lands,  and  tenements,  and  gold, — 
All  that  he  had  by  care  and  caution  won,  — 

To  those  his  kinsmen,  to  enjoy  and  hold, 

Till  their  predestined  course,  like  his,  was  run  ; 

And  each  to  others  should  the  same  devise, 

Leaving  for  self  the  legend,  "  Here  he  lies." 

All  that  he  had,  save  one  unpurchased  gem, 

Which,  never  loaned  nor  bought,  could  not  be  sold 

Nor  willed  away.     Yet,  though  the  diadem 
Of  God  were  blank  without  it,  'tis  not  bold 

To  say  that  waters,  which  the  free  winds  kiss, 

Are  not  more  plentiful  and  free  than  this. 

All  that  he  had,  save  that,  the  lord  of  which, 
Ragged  and  starved,  by  kings  may  envied  be ; 

While  he  without  it,  though  as  Croesus  rich, 
Is  but  the  veriest  heir  of  poverty  ; 
16 


242 

And  sad  inheritor,  than  penury,  worse, 

Of  the  undying  worm  —  eternity's  true  curse. 

All  that  he  had  —  My  God  !  what  were  it  all, 
What  the  broad  universe  thou  fashionedst  well, 

To  that,  which,  hell  possessing,  hell  we'd  call 

Heaven  ;  without  which,  heaven  would  be  a  hell  ? 

Nothing  !  and  infinitely  less  than  nought,  — 

Without  the  treasure  worlds  have  never  bought. 

He  could  devise  lands,  tenements,  and  gold, — 
All  that  he  had  by  toil  and  talents  won, — 

To  those,  his  kinsmen,  to  enjoy  and  hold, 
Till  their  last  sand  of  life  was  also  run  ;  — 

He  could  enrich  them  with  earth's  shining  dust, 

And  glut,  to  loathing,  avaricious  lust ; 

He  could  not  give  them  the  immortal  gem, 
For  which  a  man  were  wise  to  sell  his  soul ; 

Which  burns  and  flashes  in  God's  diadem. 
This  was  beyond  the  orator's  control ;  — 

Beyond,  of  wit  and  eloquence,  the  power, 

To  loan,  or  to  retain  a  single  hour. 

Yet  they  may  have  it ;  —  thou  mayst  have  it ;  —  I 
May  gather  this  into  my  hidden  place  ; 

Not  to  gloat  o'er  it,  with  delighted  eye, 

And  see  it  lessen  ; — but,  with  added  grace, 

To  mark  its  glories,  sparkling,  blazing  far, 

Ineffably  serene,  a  bright  and  blessed  Star. 


243 


THE   VOICE   AT  SEA. 

The  missionaries  write  of  a  revival  on  board  the  ship  Charles 
Wharton,  on  her  passage  to  India. 

The  waves  of  passion  may  be  stayed  where  lordly 

billows  toss, 
The  journeyers  of  the  deep  may  be  the  followers  of 

the  cross  ; 
'Mid  storms  that  strain  his  gallant  ship,  the  mariner 

in  faith 
May  hear  what  He  who  humbled  once  the  surging 

waters  saith. 

The  Voice  at  Sea  ! — the  voice  that  wakes  the  sailor 

from  his  dream,  — 
Is  that  which  speaks  in  rushing  floods,  and  in  the 

gentle  stream, 
And  in  the  forest's  harmony,  when  all  its  trees  rejoice  ; 
In  cottages,  in  palaces,  —  it  is  the  Spirit's  voice  ! 

Dost  see  yon  vessel  like  a  bird  on  ocean's  wilderness  ? 
Oh,  there  go  some  whose  lofty  looks  are  changed  to 

lowliness  : 
Upon  them  Love  has  shed  its  dews  ;  from  head  to 

garment's  hem 
They're  bathed;  —  old  things  are  past,  —  the  Dove 

has  overshadowed  them. 


244 


And  stern-lipped  men,  who  never  quailed  upon  the 

yielding  mast, 
Have  feared  their  sin,  and  sought  the  few  whose  lot 

with  Heaven  is  cast ; 
And  mouths  that  left  us  with  a  curse  —  thou  hear'st 

them  as  they  pass  — 
On  Hoogly  meekly  learn  to  pray,  and  hail  with  hymn 

Madras  ! 

Thou  seest  the  Spanner  of  the  deeps,  who  scoops  the 

waves  a  bed, 
Looks  where  the  lowly  sailor  weeps,  and  marks  each 

tear  that's  shed  ; 
And,  unconfined  to  minster  walls  and  carved  and 

gilded  fane, 
Bends  o'er  the  hammock  where  he  calls,  and  soothes 

the  sinner's  pain. 

Sweet  to  the  troubled  mariner,  aloft  on  quivering 
shrouds, 

It  is  to  look  in  confidence  beyond  the  warring  clouds, 

And  know,  when  by  deceitful  winds,  at  starless  mid- 
night driven, 

There  shineth  down  upon  his  path  the  guiding  ray  of 
Heaven. 

And  sweet  to  us  that  interchanged  the  lingering  last 

farewell, 
Sustained   by  Him  who  chideth   not  when  tides  of 

sorrow  swell  — 


245 


To  know  that  He  went  down  with  them  that  business 

do  at  sea, 
And  in  their  noble  vessel  showed  the  power  of  Deity. 

And  praise  to  Him  whose  presence  cheered  that  mis- 
sionary ship, 

And  wrought,  with  sure  and  silent  power,  such  change 
of  soul  and  lip  ! 

Yea,  praise  to  Thee  !  the  barks  that  speed  thy  sacra- 
mental host, 

Thou  overshadowest  in  their  need,  Wing  of  the  Holy 
Ghost ! 

And  still'st  the  elemental  strife,  subduing  every  sin  ; 
By  Thee  the  sea  restores  to  life  the  dead  that  were 

therein  : 
In  hearts  of  those  that  shun  thy  truth,  the  wayward 

and  the  strong, 
Thou  putt'st  its  shining,  searching  edge,  and  in  their 

mouth  a  song. 

Oh,  parent !  whose  unhappy  child  has  left  the  peace 

of  home, 
And  left  its  dear  and  virtuous  love,  in  distant  ways 

to  roam, — 
Be  comforted  !    and   for  him   plead,  though  he  has 

thoughtless  trod, 
And  long  been  lost,  this  hour  he  may  be  found  at 

last  of  God. 


246 


In  watches  of  the  night,  when  hushed  are  winds  and 

sleeps  the  wave, 
His   thought   may   homeward  turn,  to  rest  upon  a 

father's  grave  ; 
Or  on  the  countenance  of  her  that  led  his  step  above 
In   youth,    and    on   remembered  words    dropt   by   a 

mother's  love. 

In  pauses  of  the  northern  storm  a  Voice  may  come 

with  power, 
And  meet  him  in  the  tropic  breeze  at  evening's  quiet 

hour  ; 
Oh,  who  can  shun  His  presence,  who  may  from  the 

Spirit  flee  ? 
For  omnipresent,  Lord  !  thou  art,  and  in  thy  hands 

are  we. 


PROGRESS   OF  TEMPERANCE. 

Hail,  Temperance  !  to  aid  thee,  the  foe  to  expel, 
The  age  is  advancing  ;  —  thy  advocates  well 
Have  won  good  opinions  in  showing  the  plan, 
The  how  and  the  why  of  a  cold  water  man  ; 
And  proved  it  as  plain  as  that  twice  three  are  six, 
The  old  pledge  was  one  of  old  Alcohol's  tricks, 


247 


Who  knew  that  his  slaves  he  could  keep  in  his  track, 
Though  shunning  prime  Hollands,  and  best  Ccgniac, 
If  beer,  porter,  cider,  or  ale,  they  might  guzzle  ; 
Ay,  keep  them  as  sure  as  an  ox  in  the  muzzle, 
Whatever  they  signed,  if  with  these  in  their  book, 
His  victims  were  certain,  by  hook  or  by  crook. 
And  proved,  too,  to  ample  and  clear  demonstration, 
The  only  chance  left  to  deliver  our  nation, 
The  only  chance  left  for  a  world  steeped  in  drink, 
Was  to  battle  the  enemy  ;  yes  !  from  the  brink 
Of  ruin,  dishonor,  and  close-cleaving  shame, 
By  one  mighty  struggle  to  rescue  her  fame, 
By  one  mighty  struggle,  the  victory  gaining,  — 
"  From  all  that  intoxicates"  wholly  abstaining. 
From  the  north  and  the  south,  the  east  and  the  west, 
A  phalanx  is  moving,  the  battle  to  breast. 
All  ranks,  all  degrees,  from  the  laborer,  up 
To  the  president,  all  who  were  slaves  to  the  cup  ; 
And  those,  only  moderate  —  most  dangerous  of  all  — 
With  hearty  concurrence,  reply  to  the  call. 
The  lawyers  are  coming  !  their  Blackstone  and  Coke 
To  pore  o'er  with  brandy  "s  no  longer  a  joke. 
The  mysteries  of  entail  and  feoff,  they  divine, 
May  be  solved,  and  that  justly,  in  absence  of  wine. 
They  own  truth's  indictment  is  guiltless  of  flaws, 
And  bring  special  pleading  in  aid  of  the  cause. 
The  doctors,  whose  consummate  kindness  and  skill 
Are  feelingly  known  in  the  blister  and  pill  — 
Have  freely  surrendered,  than  sickness,  as  worse, 
The  rum,  with  the  remedy,  mixed  by  the  nurse  ; 


243 


And  e'en  are  excusing  the  babe  on  the  lap 

From  swallowing  the  poison,  disguised  in  the  pap. 

The  clergy  most  nobly  are  leading  the  van 

To  onset  for  all  that  is  dearest  to  man  ; 

They've  sought  out  the  foe,  and  are  following  with 

skill 
The  tortuous  trail  of  the  Worm  of  the  Still  : 
Convinced,  though  the  monster  be  not  the  real  devil, 
His  deeds  show  the  imp  of  the  father  of  evil. 
The  ladies,  whose  smiles  are  the  balsam  of  life, 
Have  come  to  the  rescue  ! — the  maiden  and  wife 
And  matron  have  frowns  for  the  fool  who  has  lost 
The  pearl  of  his  honor,  nor  valued  the  cost. 
Hail,  Temperance  !  that  asks,  though  at  war,  for  no 

banners 
Of  glory,  no  poet  to  hymn  her  hosannas, — 
Ovation  of  triumph,  nor  conqueror's  crown  — 
Far  higher,  far  prouder,  whose  looked  for  renown ! 
To  dry  up  the  tear  on  the  beggared  one's  cheek, 
To  soothe  the  distresses  no  language  can  speak, 
To  lighten  the  bosom  whose  abject  despair 
Was  too  much  for  woman,  wife,  mother,  to  bear  ; 
To  bring  back  the  husband,  all  foul  with  the  stain, 
To  purity,  peace,  home  and  virtue  again; 
A  man  to  his  fellow,  —  yea,  mind  to  restore  — 
Abused  and  down-trodden,  to  reason  once  more. 
All  this  —  it  is  much  !  her  determinate  aim  ; 
Tee-totaller  christened,  and  proud  of  the  name  — 
She  goes  on  from  conquering  to  conquer,  for  yet 
There's  fight,  ere  the  bale-star,  Intemperance,  is  set- 


249 


PENITENCE   AND   PRAYER. 

Oli,  behold  me  right, 
And  take  compassion  on  my  grievous  plight : 
What  odor  can  be,  than  a  heart  contrite, 

To  thee  more  sweet  ? 

Ben  Jonson,  1595. 

Now  I  bend  the  heart  and  knee, 
Now  will  I  confess  to  Thee  ! 
Oh,  God  of  purity,  the  base 
In  thought  can  never  see  thy  face. 
The  spotless  lustre  of  the  skies 
Is  viewed  not  by  adulterous  eyes  ; 
The  sensual  wish,  the  low  desire 
May  never  to  thy  courts  aspire  ; 
How  can  the  bosom  that's  impure, 
Thy  awful  scrutiny  endure  ? 

If  thy  sweet  heavens  are  unclean, 
And  starry  seraphim  are  seen 
Glittering  in  folly,  when  with  Thee 
Compared,  what  in  thy  sight  are  we  ! 
Rather,  I  ask,  and  what  am  I,  — 
Too  vile  to  live,  too  vile  to  die, — 
Whose  every  thought  is  steeped  in  sin, 
Who  have  thine  enemy  within ; 
Who  drink  up  guilt  like  water,  who 
Wander,  and  love  to  wander  too  ! 

I  do  beseech  Thee,  check  this  fire 
That  burns  to  lowest  hell ;  inspire 


250 

My  heart,  —  if  I  thy  love  have  known,  — 

Once  more  with  love  :  make  me  thine  own. 

Let  not  the  adversary  sift 

My  soul  as  wheat ;  but  do  thou  lift 

My  feet  from  out  the  horrid  clay, 

And  set  me  in  the  narroAV  way, 

Safe  on  the  Rock  of  Ages.     Then, 

Thy  grace  I'll  show  to  erring  men  ; 

And  sinners,  taught  to  hope  by  me, 

The  chiefest,  will  return  to  Thee. 


MUCH  FORGIVEN,  LOVING  MUCH 

If  he  loves  much  to  whom  is  most 
Of  grievous  sin  by  thee  forgiven, — 

Oh,  God,  of  all  the  holy  host 

From  earth  redeemed,  who  sing  in  heaven, 

None  can  my  love  to  thee  excel, 

For  none  deserves,  so  richly,  hell. 

Yet  if  my  debt  to  thee  I  count, 

By  all  the  love  that  fires  me  here,  — 

So  worthless  is  the  summed  amount, 
So  mixed  with  unbelief  and  fear, 

That  from  sweet  obligation  free 

I'd  nothing  owe,  my  Lord,  to  thee. 


251 


CHILDREN  ARE  BLESSED  FOR  THE 
PARENTS'    SAKE. 

To  saved  ones  that  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  heaven, 
Where  smiles  are  not  dimmed  by  the  frequent  tear, 
With  bliss  that's  unfading,  for  ever  is  given 
Freedom  from  fears  which  preyed  on  them  here. 
Earth  past  —  they,  unheeding  its  laugh  or  its  care, 
Joy  not  in  its  joys,  sorrow  not  for  its  wo, — 
Ever  soaring  and  singing,  the  glorified  there 
Never  notice  the  weary  or  weeper  below. 

Yet  when  the  happy  in  brightness  is  kneeling 
To  Him  who  maketh  the  darkness  his  seat,  — 
And  love  and  humility  sweetly  revealing, 
Is  casting  the  crown  at  Immanuel's  feet  — 
Though  he  museth  not  there  on  the  one  he  has  left 
In  sin  to  mourn,  in  the  flesh  to  stay, — 
The  child,  of  a  friend,  a  father  bereft, 
Wandering  alone  in  the  perilous  way,  — 

Think  ye  not,  then,  the  eye  that  ne'er  sleepeth, 
Is  resting  in  kindness  and  care  on  that  son  ? 
That  God,  who  the  seed  of  the  righteous  keepeth, 
Guards,  and  will  guard  him,  till  toiling  is  done  ? 
Oh,  surely,  the  sighs  and  prayers  of  the  good 
For  children,  are  heard  in  their  confident  trust ; 
Heaven  answers  as  no  parent  could, 
When  lips  that  breathed  them  are  sealed  in  dust. 


252 


WHO   GAZES  FROM  MOUNT 
OLIVET? 

Who  gazes  from  Mount  Olivet, 

His  dove-like  eyes  with  sorrow  wet  — 

His  bosom  with  compassion  heaving, 

His  mighty  heart  with  anguish  grieving  ? 

Who  searches  with  unerring  eye 

Into  thy  sad  futurity, 

Jerusalem  !  and  sees  thy  doom 

Written  by  imperial  Rome  ;  — 

Famine,  Slaughter,  Fire,  agreed 

On  thy  precious  ones  to  feed, 

Ruin  round  thy  bulwarks  wrap, 

And  the  pagan  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  sacred  mercy  seat  ? 

Who  is  he  that  sees  it  all  ? 

Sees,  when  sacrilegious  feet 

Tread  on  Zion  —  when  the  call 

Is  for  vengeance  most  complete  ? 

He,  the  prophet,  pilgrim-shod  ; 

He,  the  very  son  of  God  ! 

Years  sweep  on  ;  —  Jerusalem  ! 
Thee  the  Roman  armies  hem. 
Countless  legions  on  thee  press  ; 
Clouds  of  arrows  thee  distress  ; 
Stone  and  dart  and  javelin 
Entrance  to  thy  treasures  win. 


253 

Hippicus,  Antonia,  fall, 

Mariamne  —  and  thy  wall 

Pierced  with  gates  of  burnished  gold- 

And  the  holy  house  of  old, 

Yield  unto  the  dreadful  strife. 

Heavens  !  the  sacrifice  of  life  ! 

Murder,  plunder,  leagued  in  band, 

Stalk  amid  thee,  hand  in  hand  ;  — 

Cedron  is  a  pool  of  gore, 

Olivet  is  fortress  made. 

Mercy  !  that  the  towers  of  yore 

Courts  that  saw  the  world  adore, 

Should  in  dust  and  blood  be  laid  ! 

Who  directs  the  furious  war  ? 

He,  alone,  whose  prescience  saw  — 

Mightier  than  Vespasian's  son  — 

He  the  ruthless  fight  has  won, 

He  the  wine-press  here  has  trod, 

He,  the  very  son  of  God  ! 


THE   CHANGE. 

Come  to  the  aged  dead,  and  see 
How  on  that  tranquil  brow 
And  placid  cheek,  the  impress  lies 
Of  glorious  Childhood  now  ! 


254 

'Tis  something,  not  of  noon's  full  beam, 
Nor  sunset's  chastened  ray, — 
But  like  sweet  morning,  ere  it  melts 
Into  the  gush  of  day. 

We  saw  him  in  his  lusty  prime  ; 
'Twas  sadly  ours  to  scan 
The  lineaments,  which  strongly  spelt 
The  stricken,  troubled  man. 

How  stern  that  brow  of  dark-winged  years  ! 
How  eloquent  that  cheek, 
And  eye,  chastised,  which  ever  seemed 
Of  hopes,  all  quenched,  to  speak  ! 

We  saw  him  in  the  wasting  hour, 
When  strife  its  work  had  done ; 
And  sharp  disease  and  eager  pain 
Their  victory  had  won. 

Their  victory,  in  which  themselves 
Found  unretrieved  defeat; 
Ho,  Death  !  thou  art  a  victim,  slain 
Beneath  thy  victim's  feet. 

Come  to  the  dead,  —  how  changed  is  he  ! 
The  same  —  thou  needest  not  fear  ; 
Sickness  and  grief,  and  years  are  gone, 
'Tis  life's  first  freshness  here. 


255 

The  deep-writ  characters  of  time, 
The  weary  words  of  age, 
We  read  not  now  ;  we  fondly  dwell 
On  Infancy's  sweet  page. 

A  blessed  thought,  that  love's  last  look 
Is  pictured  on  the  heart 
So  faithfully,  that  with  it  love 
Would  willingly  not  part. 

And  Death  !  a  mighty  power  is  thine 
To  blot  all  present  pain, 
And  with  thy  cold  and  gentle  touch 
To  bring  the  past  again. 


ORGANIZATION   OF   THE  FIRST   CONGRE- 
GATIONAL CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA. 

For  conscience  bold,  our  sires  of  old, — 
A  heaven-devoted  flock, — 
Tempting  the  waves,  by  Him  who  saves, 
Were  led  to  Plymouth  rock. 

Stern  Winter's  sway  held  shore  and  bay, 
What  time  they  pitched  their  tent ; 
And  ere  Spring's  bloom,  unto  the  tomb 
Their  flower  of  manhood  went. 


256 

Want  hedged  their  path ;  the  red  man's  wrath, 
And  sickness,  too,  they  met, 
And  griefs  ;  yet,  God  !  the  way  they  trod, 
Thy  mercy  did  beset. 

Two  hundred  years!  —  those  precious  tears 
And  watchings,  want  and  pain, 
Hid  in  that  field,  now  freely  yield 
A  thousand  fold  again. 

Oh,  Sire  of  Grace  !  we  of  their  race, 
To  whom  their  deeds  are  known,  — 
Our  hopes  fulfilled,  this  church  do  build 
On  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Thy  help  our  stay,  be  ours  the  way, 
Those  ancient  fathers  trod  ; 
Our  zeal  like  theirs,  our  toil  and  prayers, 
And  ours  the  Pilgrims'  God  ! 


THE   OMEN. 

A  dark  cloud  sailed  along  the  sky, 
Charged  with  the  thunder  and  the  rain 
Slowly  it  sailed  along,  and  I 
Gazed  on  the  traveller  with  pain. 


257 

Now  rising  —  seeming  now  to  dip, 
Proudly,  withal,  and  wondrous  fair  — 
It  passed,  like  some  majestic  ship, 
Along  the  buoyant  paths  of  air. 

I  often  have  beheld  the  clouds, 

In  solemn  pageant,  sweep  along, 

And  gazed,  where  God  himself  enshrouds, 

And  listened  to  the  tempest's  song. 

But  this  one  was  so  dread  to  see, 
I  looked  and  shuddered  —  looked  and  sighed,- 
Yet  deemed  not  grief  so  near  to  me  ;  — 
That  very  night  my  sweet  babe  died. 


MYSELF. 

Less  than  the  least 
Of  all  God's  mercies,  is  my  poesy  still.  —  George  Herbert. 

Great  are  thy  gifts,  my  God,  vouchsafed  to  me, 
Who  am  unworthy  of  the  least  from  thee. 
Recipient  am  I  of  a  gracious  store 
Of  good  :  —  health,  reason,  food  and  friends,  and  more 
Of  comfort,  than  to  many  may  befal ;  — 
Yet  these  were  poor,  Great  Giver !  were  these  all. 
I  have  much  more  ;  —  for  me,  reversion  is, 
I  humbly  trust,  of  joys,  to  which  earth's  bliss 
17 


258 


Is  abject  misery,  and  her  hope,  despair. 
Yet,  though  the  creature  of  thy  constant  care, 
Ennobled,  raised,  yea,  soon  to  be  a  prince, 
I  am,  and  ever  must  be  lowly,  since, 
Of  all  thy  mercies,  I,  indeed,  am  least, 
And  most  unthankful,  as  thou  daily  seest. 
While  some  contend  for  Paul,  Apollos  some, 
I  will  contend,  in  sooth,  that  none  can  come 
Into  thy  kingdom,  Lord  !  a  greater  debtor 
To  Mercy,  than  myself;  though  many  better; 
Yet  louder  song  than  theirs  be  mine  above, 
Who  owe,  and  gladly  owe,  so  much   to  Sovereign 
Love. 


THE   INDIFFERENT. 

I  saw  a  man  who  had  sojourned  where 
The  Saviour  once  did  tabernacle.     He 
Familiar  was  with  Bethlehem,  Nazareth  ;  knew 
The  very  site  of  Jacob's  well ;  had  talked 
Where  Jesus  talked,  —  was  intimate  Avith  all 
The  scene  of  his  sad  story.     Yea,  had  dwelt 
Hard  by  the  Garden  ;  and  his  daily  course 
Had  taken  o'er  the  soil  of  Calvary ; 
And  yet  he  gaily  spake  of  these  ;  and  smiled, 
And  smoothed  his  chin ;  and  twisted  in  his  hair 
His  dainty  fingers,  as  with  nonchalance 
He  took  upon  his  lips  these  sacred  names  ; 
And  then  I  thought  a  man  might  ransack  heaven. 
Yet,  Gallio  like,  care  not  for  all  these  things. 


259 


BROOKLINE. 

I  have  revisited  thy  sylvan  scenes, 

Brookline  !  in  this  the  summer  of  my  day. 

Again  have  revelled  in  thy  lovely  vales, 

And  feasted  vision  on  thy  glorious  hills  ; 

As  once  I  revelled,  feasted,  in  the  spring 

Of  careless,  happy  boyhood.     And  I've  bowed 

Again  within  thy  temple,  and  have  heard, 

As   though   Time's   footfall    had   these   years   been 

hushed  — 
Thy  patriarch  pastor's  lips,  like  dew,  distil 
Gentle  instruction.     And  the  same  is  he, 
As  to  young  love  and  reverence  he  was  — 
My  cheerful  friend,  benevolent  and  good. 
The  same  thy  hills  and  dells,  those  skies  the  same, 
Of  rich  October ;  such  as  only  bend 
Over  New  England  ;  and  the  same  gray  walls, 
Reared  in  New  England's  infancy,  are  those,* 
Which  charmed  imagination.     Thou  art  fair, 
And  beautiful  as  ever.     Fancy  deems 
Thy  sweet  retreat  excused  the  common  doom 
Caused  by  the  fall ;  as  if  the  Architect 
Were  willing,  by  such  specimen,  to  show 
What  Eden  in  its  primal  beauty  was. 

*  The  Aspinwall  House,  (as  seen  in  the  vignette,)  built  in  1SG0  ; 
now  owned  by  Colonel  Thomas  Aspinwall,  Consul  at  London, 
in  which  his  great-grandfather  was  born.  The  elm  near  it  is 
about  one  hundred  and  forty  years  old,  and  at  three  feet  from  its 
rcots  is  twenty  feet  in  circumference. 


260 


And  yet  there  is  a  change,  unseen,  though  felt. 
Tis  in  myself.     I  gaze  not,  with  the  heart 
Freely  given  up,  as  once  I  gave  it  up, 
Nor  questioned  why.     Years  have  stept  in  between 
Its  warm  idolatry,  and  what  it  worshipped. 

'Tis  well  that  change  on  all  things  is  inscribed  ; 
Else  to  such  charms  as  thine,  its  simple  love 
Would  be  too  strongly  wed,  and  I  forget 
That  thou,  in  thy  glad  splendor,  wilt  rejoice, 
And  send  up  beauty's  all-perpetual  hymn, — 
In  eloquence  how  true  ! — in  future  years, 
(As  thou  dost  now  rejoice)  — but  not  for  me  ! 


THE   DEVOTED. 

Oir,  blest  is  he  who  cares 

That  God  have  glory  given ; 
Whose  faith,  and  alms,  and  toils,  and  prayers, 

Are  leading  souls  to  heaven. 

And  greatly  blest  is  he 

Who  labors,  prays,  and  weeps, 
That  Christ  may  of  his  travail  see 

Beyond  the  distant  deeps. 

Such,  entering  into  rest, 

The  Chinese,  saved,  shall  own  ; 
The  Hindoo,  there,  will  hail  him  blessed, 

And  children  of  Ceylon. 


261 


ALL   NIGHT   IN   PRAYER. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  in  those  days,  that  he  went  out  into 
mountain  to  pray,  and  continued  all  night  in  prayer  to  God. 

Luke  vi.  12. 

All  night  in  prayer,  while  mortals  slept 
The  Saviour  woke  on  bended  knee, 
And  in  the  mountain  vigils  kept 
Of  sighs  and  tears,  my  soul,  for  thee. 

Night  spread  her  starry  wing  around 
His  head,  that  drooped  for  human  wo, 
And  hastening  angels  sought  the  ground, 
Wondering  to  see  their  Maker  so. 

He  prayed — yet  not  in  view  of  all 
The  griefs  his  prescience  understood, — 
The  stripes,  the  spear,  the  nails,  the  gall, 
The  crown  of  thorns,  the  cross  of  wood. 

No,  nor  in  view  of  that  dark  hour 
When  God  from  him  should  turn  his  eye, 
And  hell's  permitted  final  power 
Should  triumph,  when  it  saw  him  die. 

But  sight  of  sin  and  sin's  desert 
Prest  down  his  soul,  and  sight  of  men 
Wounded  to  death,  and  to  their  hurt 
Rejecting  Gilead,  grieved  him  then. 


262 

Oh,  Saviour  !  in  Judea  prayer 
Not  now  is  breathed  from  lips  of  thine  ; 
That  mountain  is  the  robber's  lair, 
Its  clefts  reveal  the  Moslem's  shrine. 

Yet  thou  art  here  !  —  this  closet  folds 
Not  shadow,  but  the  form  I  love  ; 
The  same  who,  interceding,  holds 
My  wants  before  the  throne  above. 

All  night  in  prayer  !  —  my  joyful  sense 
Would  fain  thus  spend  the  wakeful  night 
Yet  oh,  where  Thou  art,  darkness  thence 
Flies,  and  with  me  'tis  more  than  light ! 


THE  FACE   OF  DEATH. 

What  a  spiritual  expression 
Death  doth  ever  wear  ! 

'Tis  as  if  its  own  impression 
Heaven  write th  there. 

Something  of  eternity 

In  that  fixed  face  you  see. 

Or,  as  if  the  soaring  spirit, 

Leaving  dust  alone  — 
Ere  she  mounted,  lingering,  gave  it 

Image  of  her  own  ; 


263 

Setting  solemn  seal  on  earth, 
Known  again  at  glorious  birth. 

Listen,  mother  !  —  by  this  token 

Joy  shall  follow  pain  ; 
Ties  shall  be  renewed,  now  broken, 

He  shall  live  again  ! 
How  thy  beauteous  boy  will  shine 
With  a  countenance  divine  ! 


TALLEYRAND. 

He  ministered  in  vestments  once,  where  blazed  the 

shrines  of  prayer, 
And  meekly  he  of  Autun  knelt,  a  mitred  prelate  there. 
His  meteor-path  pursuing  he  crossed  Gallia's  ruler 

then, 
And  on  war's  troubled  sky  he  burned,  admired  and 

feared  of  men. 

The  world  was  shaken,  as  in  play,  its  realms  like  dice 

o'erthrown, — 
High  over  all  he  laughed  in  scorn,  the  game  was  still 

his  own. 
Untiring  revolution's  wheel  rolled  on  and  still  it  found, 
So  fate  decreed  —  his  courtier-feet  upon  the  topmost 
round. 


264 


Thus  on,  till  death;  —  ambition's  star   of  brilliance 

then  was  dim, — 
Earth's  gauds  are  gay,  yet  what  are  they  at  such  an 

hour  to  him  ! 
Haste  !    bring    the    curate  !    say   the   mass,  be    holy 

unction  given ; 
Give  gold  !  so  may  the  shriven  pass  from  sinful  earth 

to  heaven. 

Oh,  wondrous  statesman  !  well  I  learn  from  thee  the 

lesson  high, 
Though  living  men  may  scoff  at  hope,  they  clutch  it 

when  they  die. 
And  though  through  folly's  foreign  way  the  exile 

gaily  past, 
He  turned  from  all  in  weariness,  and  sought  his  home 

at  last. 


THE   SUNDAY   SCHOOL. 

Behold  the  groups  that  gather  there  ! 
Children  within  the  place  of  prayer. 
Think  of  the  future  harvest's  power, 
Whose  seed  is  planted  in  this  hour, — 
The  Bible,  Library-book,  the  word 
Of  love,  by  which  the  heart  is  stirred  ;  — 


265 

The  many  precepts,  kindly  given, 

The  many  hopes  that  dews  of  heaven 

May  fall,  refreshing,  on  the  soil, 

And  crown,  with  large  increase,  the  toil. 

Think  of  the  mass  of  mind  thus  trained, 

And  say,  is  not  a  victory  gained 

O'er  error,  bigotry,  and  sin  ? 

With  arms  like  these,  shall  we  not  win  ? 

Think,  too,  of  those  who,  from  their  class, 

As  pupils,  have  been  called  to  pass 

To  higher  seats,  where  Wisdom  dwells, — 

To  pastures,  where  the  cool,  deep  wells 

Of  living  waters  gush,  and  He, 

The  Shepherd,  dwells  eternally  ! 


THE   SACRAMENTS. 

But  shall  they  be  my  God  ?  or  shall  I  have 
Of  them  so  foul  and  impious  a  thought, 
To  think  that  from  the  curse  they  can  me  save  ? 
Bread,  wine,  nor  water,  me  no  ransom  brought. 

Juhn  Bunyan. 

I  bring  unto  the  Font,  with  holy  feeling, 

My  blossom,  sweet,  and  yet  defiled  ; 

And  crave  the  sign,  which  Love  is  here  revealing, 

To  seal,  for  aye,  my  child. 


266 

Yet  cannot  deem  these  pure  innocuous  waters, 
Sprinkled  on  the  appealing  face  — 
Can  ever  give  to  Adam's  sons  or  daughters 
Restoring  life  and  grace. 

I  do  approach  with  awe  and  sacred  pleasure, 

The  Feast  of  origin  divine  — 

And  here,  though  poor,  do  touch  all  glorious  treasure, 

Handling  the  bread  and  wine. 

Yet  cannot  think  the  Eucharist  is  food 

To  satisfy  the  starving  mind 

That  feeds  on  sin.     Here,  if  my  sin  intrude, 

My  Lord  I  may  not  find. 


VERSES 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF    A    CHURCH    PUBLICATION. 

If  drums  and  bells  and  proud  parade 
Announce  to  heaven  a  nation's  day, 
And  stars  and  stripes  are  all  displayed 
For  her,  released  from  Britain's  sway  — 
May  ice  not  sing  of  victories  gained, 
By  sovereign  grace  o'er  sense  and  sin, — 
Of  wreaths  and  realms,  by  Him  obtained, 
Who  wins  alone,  and  still  shall  win  ? 


267 

On  fashion's  page,  behold  !  how  blaze 
The  gems  of  love,  the  wit  of  youth,  — 
And  may  not  here  concentrate  rays, 
Which  freely  flash  from  diamond  truth  ! 
While  Poetry  her  wing  doth  dip 
In  other  than  Siloa's  dews, 
Shall  here  the  joyful  heart  and  lip 
The  song  of  gratitude  refuse  ? 

True  —  on  our  scroll,  undying  names 

Of  royal  robbers  may  not  shine  ;  — 

The  garland  which  ambition  claims, 

To  crown  its  crimes,  we  may  not  twine  ;  — 

True,  while  their  clarions  sounded  on 

And  men  admired,  we  did  not  cease 

To  shout  the  deeds  "  Good  will "  hath  done, 

To  chant  the  angels'  chorus,  "  Peace  !  " — 

Yet,  we're  approved;  —  and  when,  like  dreams, 
Earth's  gauds  and  gold  are  swept  away, 
And  battle's  harp  is  hushed,  our  themes 
Shall  live  on  lyres  which  God  will  play. 
Here  pauseth  then,  the  Church,  to  raise 
Her  Ebenezer  high,  and  sing 
Of  all  the  strait  and  thorny  ways 
Through  which  she's  journeyed  to  her  King. 

She  presses  on  !  —  though  clouds  descend 
And  sometimes  veil  her  Pisgah  now, 
Yet  strong  in  ancient  Israel's  friend, 
Her  feet  shall  find  its  topmost  brow. 


268 

Remembrance  of  the  gall  drank  up, 
And  bitter  herbs  that  earth  hath  given, 
She  knows  will  sweeter  spice  the  cup 
That  crowns  the  bridal  board  of  heaven. 

Grace,  Grace,  aright  to  prompt  the  pen  ! 
Grace,  skilful  Grace  !  aright  to  show 
How  best  may  reach  the  hearts  of  men, 
The  polished  shaft  from  Wisdom's  bow. 
And  pen  and  press,  and  tongue  and  powers, 
Impartial,  true,  and  firm  and  free  — 
Thy  gifts,  oh,  God  !  — both  we  and  ours 
Will  consecrate  again  to  thee. 


THE   ISRAELITE'S   PRAYER. 

No  hallowed  oils,  no  grains  I  need, 
No  rags  of  saints,  no  purging  fire. 

Sir  Henry  TVotton,  1568. 

Oh,  Lord  !  at  thy  throne,  a  poor  Israelite,  kneeling, 
In  lowliness,  comes  with  a  prayer  to  thee  now  ; 
With  confidence,  yet  in  emotion,  revealing 
The  reverence  that  awes,  as  he  ventures  to  bow. 
Yet  how  shall  he  come  ?  for  the  cherubims'  token 
Is  faded  that  waved  once  o'er  Mercy's  bright  seat ; 
By  Urim  and  Thummim  thy  will  is  not  spoken, 
And  darkness  is  where  burned,  Shechinah  !  thy  feet. 


269 

No  longer  may  he,  on  Samaria's  mountain, 
Bow  down,  nor  to  Zion  of  David  repair  ; 
Siloa  flows  sweetly,  yet  songs  by  that  fountain 

Ascend  not  to  thee,  nor  from  Olivet  prayer, 

Oh,  Thou  !  that  didst  bring  out  thy  chosen  in  power 
From  Pharaoh,  what  boots  it  thou  humbledst  his  pride  ? 
For  we,  the  delivered,  are  whelmed  at  this  hour 
As  deep  as  his  horsemen  that  sank  in  the  tide. 

Forgive,  oh,  thou  Just  One  !  — our  fathers  in  folly, 
Forsaking  thy  service,  to  idols  did  turn, 
And  under  the  green  tree,  the  myrtle  and  holly, 
On  high  places  incense  to  Baal  did  burn  ;  * 
And  thou  didst  reject  them,  and  judgment  succeeding 
To  judgment,  gave  sign  of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord,— 
Their  valiant  men  routed,  their  heritage  bleeding,  t 
Thou  wentest  no  longer  with  buckler  and  sword. 
And  now  we  are  peeled,  and  a  jest  to  the  nations, 
And  scattered  among  them  as  leaves  that  are  sere  ; 
With  ashes  are  mingled  our  bitter  oblations, 
The  cup  of  our  trembling  is  dashed  with  a  tear. 
Yet  think  upon  Abraham  !  — the  oath  that  unto  him 
Thou  swear'st  by  thy  greatness,  none  other  so  high, 
And  think  on  the  seed  that  by  faith  thou  didst  show  him, 
As  countless  as  stars  on  the  Syrian  sky.  $ 

*  We  acknowledge,  oh,  Lord,  our  wickedness,  and  the  iniquity 
of  our  fathers.  —  Jer.  xiv.  20. 

tl  have  forsaken  my  house,  I  have  left  my  heritage  —  they 
have  made  it  desolate.  —  Jer.  xii.  7,  II. 

t  And  lie  brought  him  forth  abroad,  and  said,  Look  now  toward 
heaven,  and  tell  the  stars  if  thou  he  able  to  number  them;  and 
he  said  unto  him,  So  shall  thy  seed  be.—  Gen.  xv.  5. 


270 


That  oath  is  unbroken  !  that  covenant  never 
Could  perish,  though  Thee  have  thy  people  forgot ; 
That  seed  is  uncounted  —  by  kingdoms  wherever 
Did  families  cluster,  and  Israel  not  ? 
Thy  Zion,  though  homeless  and  humbled,  is  written, 
Thou  graciously  saidst,  in  remembrance  above  ; 
Her  walls  are  before  thee,*  and  now  that  she's  smitten, 
She  turns  to  her  Maker,  and  sues  for  his  love. 
Then  oh,  of  her  thousands,  if  here  is  one  trusting 
In  Thee,  that  would  come  in  contrition  alone, 
Wilt  thou  not  accept  him,  and  heal  the  heart  bursting 
With  grief  for  its  guilt,  by  a  glance  from  the  throne  ! 
I  search  for  the  Prince  of  mysterious  story,  — 
I  gaze  on  the  garden,  the  manger  and  tree,  — 
The  tomb  of  his  victory  —  I  find  there  his  glory, 
But  Him  in  the  mercy  that  looks  upon  me  ! 


FOR  MOBILE. 

Boston  !  that  sittest  in  thy  pride, 

A  very  queen  — 
Whose  arms  to  the  afflicted,  wide 

Open  are  seen  ; 
Who  never,  on  thy  noble  throne, 

By  Commerce  built  — 
Didst  close  thy  ears  to  Misery's  moan, 

And  never  wilt  — 

*  Behold  I  have  graven  thee  upon  the  palms  of  my  hands  ;  thy 
walls  are  continually  before  me.  —  Isaiah  xlix.  lti. 


271 

Where  art  thou,  while  the  dreadful  cries 

Of  houseless  hundreds  ring  ? 
Where  art  thou,  while  the  bitter  sighs, 

The  Southern  breezes  bring, 
Of  those  who  draw  the  panting  breath, 

Whose  home,  the  flames 
Have  swept  away,  whose  bodies,  Death 

Eagerly  claims  ? 

Hast  thou  not  heard  that  yonder  mart, 

Whose  thousand  ships 
Find  mighty  Trade's  remotest  heart, 

Wherever  dips 
The  needle,  hath  the  element 

Laid  waste  ? 
That  death  hath  noonday  arrows  spent, 

With  fearful  haste, 
Among  her  proudest,  loveliest  ?  — 

On  his  pale  steed 
How  sate  the  rider  !     Now  do  rest 

Where  worms  shall  feed, 
Her  children,  on  whom  yester's  sun 

Did  gaily  shine  — 
To  pleasure,  love,  and  life's  joys  won, 

Freely  as  thine  ! 

Think  !  — tbey  are  of  thy  flesh  and  bone, 

Blood  of  thy  blood  ; 
They  kneel  with  thee  at  Freedom's  throne, 

They  worship  God ; 
Thy  wandering  sons  and  daughters  they, 

With  generous  heat 


272 

For  their  loved  mother  in  the  North,  away, 

Their  pulses  beat; 
And  never  would  their  hearts  be  lapped 

In  selfish  ease, 
Did  fires  thy  fair  possessions  wrap, 

Thy  sons,  disease. 
By  dear  humanity's  sweet  claim, 

By  pity's  gem  — 
By  pride,  ambition,  yea,  by  shame, 

Look  thou  to  them  !  1839. 


THE   FURNITURE. 

So  near  our  cradles  to  our  coffins  are. —  Drummond  of  HaiDthornden. 

Two  items  make,  of  furniture,  our  store, 

And  choicest  luxury  need  crave  no  more. 

They're  ample  for  the  rich  ;  of  them  possessed, 

Is  poverty  with  full  abundance  blest. 

The  Cradle,  where  is  rocked  our  earliest  cry, 

The  Coffin,  where  is  hushed  our  latest  sigh ; 

And  all  between  is  superfluity, 

Unworthy,  mortal,  such  regards  of  thee. 

Fix,  then,  thine  eye  on  these,  and  let  thy  heart 

Seek  for  its  furniture  the  better  part, 

Such  as  the  wiser  Mary  chose  ;  nor  let 

Inferior  things  thy  noble  spirit  fret. 

Thus  on  —  till  thou  and  I  possess  the  land 

Whose  palaces  are  decked  by  God's  own  hand. 


273 


CHRISTIAN  WARS. 


A  Turk,  at  Jerusalem,  once  said  to  Mr.  Wolff,  the  missionary, 
"  Why  do  you  come  to  us  ?  "  The  missionary  replied,  "  To  bring 
you  peace."  "  Peace  !  "  replied  the  Turk,  leading  ?,;r.  Wolff  to  a 
window,  and  pointing  him  to  Calvary,  "there,  upon  the  very 
spot  where  your  Lord  poured  out  his  blocd,  the  Mohammedan  is 
obliged  to  interfere,  to  prevent  Christians  from  shedding  the  blood 
of  each  other." 


The  angels'  song,  that  happy  night 
When  spirits  stooped  to  mortal  ken, 

Warbled  from  lips  and  lyres  of  light, 
Was,  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 

In  Peace,  the  sages  came,  and  paid 

Their  meed  of  gold  and  spice  and  myrrh  ; 

And  why  such  bliss  on  Mary  laid  ?  — 
She  felt  that  Peace  had  come  to  her. 

Peace  was  the  theme,  when  precepts  dropt 
From  Jesus'  lips,  like  his  own  dew  : 

Who  oped  their  eyes  ?  Who  ears  unstopt  ? 
His  name  was  Peace  —  'twas  all  they  knew. 

18 


274 


The  word  that  lingered  on  his  tongue, 

When  sighs  and  suffering  soon  should  cease, 

And  Jesse's  Root  be  rudely  flung 
As  a  vile  weed  away,  was  Peace. 

'Twas  "  Peace,"  that  sweetly  soothed  the  fear 
Of  those  who  mourned  their  Master  slain  : 

With  Peace  their  weapon,  far  and  near, 
They  won  the  lands  to  him  again. 

Peace  is  inscribed  on  that  broad  scroll 
The  angel  bears,  whom  Saint  John  saw  : 

Joy  to  all  realms  where  pines  a  soul, 
And  to  the  isles,  Jehovah's  law  ! 

And  yet,  oh,  God  !  the  Christian's  wrath, 
Through  all  her  seas,  through  all  her  zones, 

Has  in  Earth's  bosom  hewed  a  path 

That's  whitened  with  her  children's  bones. 

In  thy  Son's  name  the  sword  drinks  blood  ; 

In  thy  Son's  name,  since  first  his  Star 
Spake  Peace,  has  surged  the  angry  flood 

Of  never-ebbing,  whelming  war. 

Drop,  Christendom  !  thy  boasted  name, 
And  let  the  humble  take  it  —  those 

Who  fear,  in  spite  of  taunt  and  shame, 
To  count  their  Christian  fellows  foes. 


275 


THE  INTERCESSION. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Raikes,  "  you  will  be  ruined  and  lost,  if 
you  do  not  begin  to  be  a  good  girl ;  and  if  you  will  not  humble 
yourself,  I  must  humble  myself,  and  make  a  beginning  for  you." 
He  then  kneeled  down  before  the  cbild's  mother,  and  putting 
his  hands  together,  like  a  penitent  offender,  asked  her  forgive- 
ness. 

She,  in  whose  bosom  no  reproof 

Wakes  grief,  nor  chastening  kindles  fears  ; 

Who,  in  defiance,  stands  aloof 

From  counsel,  kindness,  prayers,  and  tears  — 

Deep  penitence  is  taught  to  feel  ; 
For  pardon  willingly  to  sue, 
When  meek  philanthropy  and  zeal 
Wrought  what  a  mother  failed  to  do. 

Peace  is  restored  ;  and  he  whose  love 
Thus  spake  this  troubled  household  whole, 
Feels  the  rich  peace  of  Heaven  above 
Pass  like  a  river  o'er  his  soul. 

So  shall  it  be  with  him,  whose  care 
Is  to  the  weak  and  wandering  shown  ; 
The  cruse,  thus  emptied  for  their  share, 
Returns,  unmeasured,  for  his  own. 


276 


Oh,  on  this  world  of  sickly  strife, 

So  much  unlike  its  primal  bloom  — 

That  healthful  gales  of  love  and  life 

Might  blow  and  chase  sin's  death  and  gloom 


THE    GRAVE   OF   PAYSON. 

In  the  burial  ground  at  Portland  are  three  monuments  erected, 
to  commemorate  the  achievements  of  naval  heroes  who  fell  in 
the  battles  of  their  country.  There  is  also  a  plain,  neat  obelisk, 
with  the  name,  and  dates  of  the  birth,  ministry  and  death  of  the 
late  lamented  Payson,  to  which  is  added  the  touching  line, "  Ms 
record  is  on  high."  A  late  visit  to  this  interesting  spot,  occa- 
sioned the  following  lines. 

I  stood,  in  silence  and  alone, 

Just  at  the  Sabbath  shut  of  day, 
Where,  quietly,  the  modest  stone 

Told  me  that  Payson's  relics  lay. 
No  gorgeous  tale,  nor  herald's  arms, 

Astonished  with  their  splendid  lie, 
Or  hireling  praise  ;  —  in  truth's  meek  charms 

It  said,  "  His  record  is  on  high." 

I  gazed  around  the  burial  spot 

That  looks  on  Portland's  spires  below, 

And  on  her  thousands  who  are  not, 
Did  sad  yet  useful  thought  bestow  :  — 


::? 

Here  sleep  they  till  the  trumpet's  tongue 
Shall  peal  along  a  blazing  sky  ; 

Yet  who  of  these  —  the  old  and  young  — 
May  read  his  record  then  on  high  ! 

And  near,  I  saw  the  early  grave 

Of  him  who  fought  at  Tripoli ; 
Who  would  not  live,  the  Moslem's  slave, 

Who  fell,  a  martyr  with  the  free. 
And,  wrapt  in  freedom's  starry  flag, 

The  chief  who  dared  to  **  do  or  die ;  " 
And  England's  son,  who  could  not  lag  — 

Whose  deeds  his  country  wrote  on  high. 

What  glory  lit  their  spirit's  track, 

When  from  the  gory  deck  they  flew  ! 
Could  wishes  woo  the  heroes  back  ? 

Say,  did  not  fame  their  path  pursue  ? 
Oh,  gently  sleep  the  youthful  brave 

Who  fall  where  martial  clarions  cry  — 
The  men,  entombed  in  earth  or  wave, 

Whose  blood-writ  record  is  on  high  ! 

I  turned  again  to  Payson's  clay, 

And  recollected,  well,  how  bright 
The  radiance,  far  outshining  day, 

That  robed  his  soaring  soul  in  light. 
What  music  stole  awhile  from  heaven, 

To  charm  away  his  parting  sigh  ! 
What  wings  to  waft  him  home  were  given, 

Whose  holy  record  was  on  high  ! 


278 

And  give  me  —  trembling,  said  I  then  — 

Some  place,  my  Saviour,  where  such  dwell 
And  far  above  the  pride  of  men, 

And  pomp  of  which  the  worldlings  tell, 
Will  be  my  lot.     Come,  haughty  kings  ! 

And  ye  who  pass  in  glitter  by, 
And  feel  that  ye  are  abject  things, 

Whose  record  is  not  found  on  high. 


THE   LOST. 

Some  years  since,  I  was  present  at  the  Sansom  street  Baptist 
church,  Philadelphia,  when  the  Lord's  Supper  was  dispensed. 
During  the  administration  of  the  service,  and  while  the  pastor, 
Rev.  Dr.  Staughton,  was  in  the  midst  of  a  powerful  appeal  to  the 
unawakened,  the  bellman  was  heard  in  the  street.  The  minis- 
ter paused,  as  the  description  of  a  youthful  fugitive  was  given  in 
clear  tones  by  the  crier,  and  then,  seizing  the  thought,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  A  child  is  lost!  a  child  is  lost!  What  if  some  attending 
angel,  witnessing  this  solemn  communion  season,  and  wonder- 
ing at  the  rejection  of  the  Saviour  by  the  sinner,  should  now  give 
audible  testimony  of  his  astonishment  and  grief,  and  beholding 
some  sinner  here,  making,  in  sight  of  the  Cross,  his  final  election 
for  a  hopeless  eternity,  should  startle  us  with  the  cry  —  A  soul  is 
lost!  a  soul  is  lost!  " 

Why  on  our  holy  service  steals 

Alarum  of  the  bell  ? 
A  child  is  lost !  —  that  cry  reveals 

The  agony  too  well. 


279 

A  child  is  lost  !  and  with  the  blow 
A  father's  heart  is  stirred  ; 

The  mother  —  who  may  scan  her  wo, 
Felt,  but  unknown  to  word  ! 

A  child  is  lost !  and  ready  feet 

To  seek  and  save  are  out ; 
And  lane  and  court  and  crowded  street 

Are  searched  with  call  and  shout. 
The  generous  toil  is  not  in  vain ; 

Success  succeeds  alarms  — 
The  little  fugitive  again 

Has  blest  its  mother's  arms. 

And  for  this  wanderer  speechless  fears 

Were  felt,  that  mocked  control ; 
And  for  its  loss  fell  heavy  tears, — 

What  if  it  were  a  soul ! 
A  soul,  for  whom  no  larum  rings, 

Kind  rescuing  to  call  ;  — 
For  whose  redemption  never  springs 

Hope,  that  yet  comes  to  all ! 

Oh,  smote  but  now,  the  startled  ear, 

As  smites  that  warning  bell, 
One  note  of  the  despairing  fear 

That  fills  the  vault  of  hell  — 
To  seek,  who  would  not  quickly  fly  ? 

What  realms  would  not  be  crossed  ? 
Urged  by  the  lamentable  cry, 

A  soul,  a  soul  is  lost ! 


280 


THE   ANGEL'S  WING. 

There  is  a  German  tradition  that  when  a  sudden  silence  takes 
place  in  a  company,  an  angel  at  that  moment  makes  a  circuit 
among  them,  and  the  first  person  who  hreaks  the  silence  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  touched  by  the  wing  of  the  passing  seraph. 


And  why  should  wisdom  smile  at  this  ? 

Are  not  those  perfect  beings  nigh 
To  witness  and  to  share  our  bliss, 

To  hear  and  hush  the  secret  sigh  ? 
Yes,  they  may  Heaven's  solace  bring, 
Then  scorn  not  thou,  the  Angel's  Wing  ! 


Thou  !  who  alone,  thyself  dost  deem, 

A  solitary  in  thy  grief,  — 
List !  soft  as  footfall  of  a  dream, 

Comes  one  to  bear  thee  sweet  relief; 
And  fled  is  all  thy  hoarded  care, 
The  passing  Seraph's  Wing  is  there  ! 

in. 

Thou,  who,  forgiven,  dost  possess 
The  penitent's  intense  delight, 

When  the  dark  cloud  of  guilt's  distress 
Reveals  to  thee  its  edge  of  light, — 


231 

Think  !  as  unhallowed  tempests  fly, 
Thy  soul  is  touched,  the  Wing  is  nigh  ! 

IV. 

And  thou,  of  contemplative  mood, 
Who  dost  at  eve  in  wild  woods  stray, 

Where  nought  of  this  world  may  intrude, 
Where  fancy  might  in  others  play, 

And  hearest  the  voice  which  zephyr  flings  - 

No  !  'tis  the  rush  of  Angel  Wings. 

v. 

Oh,  I  have  paused  a  space,  as  'twere, 
Bewildering  thoughts  to  gather  up, — 

To  put  aside  the  draught  of  care 
And  taste  of  mind's  exalted  cup  ; 

Nor  knew  what  o'er  my  soul  could  bring 

Such  calmness  was  the  Seraph's  Wing. 

VI. 

When  brooding  tempters  caused  me  shame, 

And  in  its  company  of  sin 
My  spirit  sate  —  the  Angel  came, 

And  swept  with  Wings  the  heart  within. 
A  moment  made  its  circuit  there, 
And  broke  my  silence  into  prayer. 

VII. 

I  knelt  beside  my  precious  boy, 

Who  went  at  childhood's  fairy  time, 

My  hope,  my  life,  my  being's  joy  — 
From  this  to  Love's  unclouded  clime  ; 


282 

And  while  around  wept  pitying  men, 
I  joyed  —  the  Angel  touched  me  then  ! 

VIII. 

And  oh,  when  at  my  own  last  hour 
The  world  recedes  and  follies  fly, 

That  near  me  with  supporting  power 
Might  plume  some  herald  of  the  sky- 

And  while  of  victory  I  sing, 

Bear  me  away  on  upward  Wing  ! 


DEPARTING. 

Then  the  priest  shall  let  them  depart  with  this  blessing :  — 
"  The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  understanding,  keep  your 
hearts  and  minds  in  the^  knowledge  and  love  of  God,  and  of  his 
Son,  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord  ;  and  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty, 
the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  be  amongst  you,  and 
remain  with  you  always.-'  —  Rubric  of  Episcopal  Church. 

'Tis  pleasant,  in  the  courts  of  God, 

"When  vows  and  hymn  and  ritual  cease, 
To  note  their  awful  threshold  trod 

By  feet  that  go  at  words  of  peace. 
"  Depart  with  blessing  !  " — How  sincere 

And  touching  is  that  holy  tone, 
Which  dies  in  music  on  the  ear 

Of  earth,  and  lives  to  heaven  alone  ! 


283 

And  when,  with  me,  all  thoughts  refuse 

To  pass  again  the  quivering  lip,  — 
And  spirit  in  those  upper  dews 

Its  mounting  wing  prepares  to  dip, — 
Give  me  to  hear  that  word  below,  — 

The  last  ere  nature's  flutterings  cease- 
From  tears  and  toil  and  empty  show 

To  truth  and  smiles,  Depart  in  peace. 


WISDOM   FROM   ALL 


My  bed  itself  is  like  the  grave, 

My  sheets  the  winding  sheet ; 
My  clothes  the  mould  which  I  must  have 

To  cover  me  most  meet.  —  The  Good  Night. 


'Tis  well  for  giddy  man  to  pause 
Along  his  pilgrim  way  ; 
And  note  what  these  that  round  him  lie 
In  council  to  him  say. 

For  he  may  find  a  precept  couched 
In  every  homely  thing, 
And  household  gear,  and  nature's  gifts, 
May  sure  instruction  bring. 


.  284 

I  wot  the  roof  that  shelters  him, 

The  table  for  his  meat, 

The  summer's  shade,  the  winter's  hearth, 

May  rich  discourse  repeat. 

I  guess  if  he  attentive  ear 
Lend  to  the  peeping  flower, 
The  germ  may  to  his  patience  read 
Lessons  of  truth  and  power. 

I  guess  if  to  the  full  ripe  corn 

He  for  direction  look, 

The  tasseled  corn  may  show  him  good 

Not  found  in  Dulness'  book. 

The  small  bird  in  its  cunning  nest, 
The  honey  bee  in  flight, 
May  teach  him  ;  yea,  the  groping  mole 
May  give  his  darkness  light. 

The  cradle  where  his  cries  were  hushed, 
The  rattle,  bells,  and  ball, 
Mute  playthings  of  his  infant  hours  — 
Have  to  his  age  a  call. 

The  brook  by  which  his  boyhood  played, 
The  hill  that  seemed  so  high, 
Are  homilies,  when  scans  he  them, 
With  manhood's  sobered  eye. 


285 

And  so,  if  pride  no  hindrance  give, 
Food  for  all  thought,  profound, 
The  wise  in  heart  may  always  pluck 
From  things  that  lie  around. 


THE   EARLY   DEAD. 

Think  of  youth 
Smitten  amidst  its  playthings.  —  Ion. 

Think,  mother  !  of  the  babe  that  clung 
In  weakness  closely  to  thy  love  ; 

Round  whom  thy  arms  were  warmly  flung, 
While  blessings  for  it  rose  above, 

With  every  panting  of  thy  breast, 
With  every  kiss,  a  whispered  prayer 

That  on  it  happy  dew  might  rest, 

That  this  sweet  bud  might  aye  be  blest, 
And  Heaven's  shielding  favor  share  — 
Where  is  that  infant  ?  —  Where  ? 

Think,  mother  !  of  thy  prattling  girl, 
Whose  sunny  eyes  have  gladdened  thee, 

Whose  bird-like  voice,  'mid  care's  wild  whirl, 
Hath  charmed  thee  with  its  melody  ; 

Whose  airy  step  within  thy  hall 
Was  signal  still  of  pleasure  there ; 


286 

Bright  creature  !  who  embodied  all 

That  we  perfection  fondly  call, 

Or  dream  the  pure  blest  spirits  are  :  — 
Where  is  that  daughter  !  —  Where  f 

Think,  mother  !  of  thy  noble  boy, 
Who  stood  before  thee  in  the  pride 

Of  strength  and  beauty  ;  no  alloy 
Thy  fond  maternal  hopes  to  chide, 

As  his  clear  eye  and  open  brow 

Thou  soughtest,  and  within  his  hair 

Of  careless  curls,  thy  fingers  thou 
Delightedly  wast  wont  to  place, 
And  mark  the  father  in  his  face, 
And  see  thy  image  mimicked  there  — 
Where  is  that  boy  ? —  Oh,  ichcre  ? 

That  infant  is  a  seraph  now  ! 

That  daughter  kneels  before  the  throne  ! 

That  beauteous  boy,  with  harp  and  crown, 
Exulting,  spreads  his  silver  wings. 
Thou  almost  hear'st  those  perfect  strings 

Whose  music  is  to  thee  unknown  — 
Sound  where  the  glad  immortals  bow. 

Where  children  cast  their  honors  down  ; 
Where  elders  and  apostles  meet 
At  Jesus'  feet. 

Think,  mother  !  while  sweet  tears  are  shed, 
How  blessed  are  the  Early  Dead  ! 


287 


WHAT  IS   MAN? 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are  ; 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  ; 
Even  such  is  man.  —  Henry  King. 

I  court  retirement's  hour, 

That  I  may  gladly  look 
Away  from  fantasies  of  earth, 

And  study  nature's  book. 

I  court  relief  from  care ; 

I  covet  better  things 
Than  this  same  creeping,  carking  care 

My  spirit  asketh  wings  ! 

It  spurneth  prison  walls, 
And  soars,  in  spite  of  chain, 

Where  mind  with  mind  expatiates, 
And  is  at  home  again. 

I  weary  of  the  strife 

Men  wage  by  night  and  day, 
An  honorable  straw  to  win,  — 

A  heap  of  yellow  clay. 


19 


They,  like  the  silly  fly, 

Suck  from  each  wooing  flower  ; 
And  revel  on  delighted  wing, 

And  perish  in  an  hour. 


WALKING   ON   THE   SEA. 

And  about  the  fourth  watch  of  the  night  he  cometh  unto  them, 
walking  upon  the  sea.  —  Mark  vi.  48. 

Tiberias  battles  with  the  storm  ; 
And  hark  !  its  waters  cry 
To  sweeping  winds,  that  answer  give 
From  out  the  troubled  sky. 

And  lo  !  upon  its  raving  tide, 

How  awfully  serene 

One  walks,  who,  in  the  furnace,  once, 

Unscathed,  "  the  Fourth"  was  seen. 

He  walks  the  waves  !  the  rebel  waves 
In  deep  submission  lie  ; 
The  wild  winds  hear  his  tread,  and  cease, 
When  Jesus  passes  by. 


2S9 

And  in  this  spirit  lurks  a  storm  ; 
Here  chafes  the  angry  sea; 
And  wild  winds  here  lift  up  their  voice, 
And  rage  continually. 

Pass  o'er  this  soul,  Redeemer  !  then 
Shall  sink  its  billows  tall ; 
Oh,  move  amid  these  winds,  and  they 
Shall  at  thy  presence  fall. 


SACRED   MELODY. 

The  following  piece,  (the  only  one  contained  in  my  former 
volumes  which  is  included  in  this  book,)  is  here  inserted  on  ac- 
count of  its  wayward  destiny.  I  wrote  it  in  Philadelphia,  June, 
1818,  for  the  Franklin  Gazette,  in  which  it  was  published  with 
the  signature  W. ;  and  the  remarks  it  elicited  in  England,  where 
it  appeared  in  newspapers,  magazines,  and  sundry  volumes  of 
sacred  poetry,  probably  gave  an  impulse  to  my  early  timid  en- 
deavors. It  has  since  appeared  in  collections  of  English  and 
American  verse,  with  various  signatures  and  names  affixed] 
and  it  may  not,  perhaps,  be  unworthy  of  a  "  local  habitation," 
and  at  length  rightful  "  name,"  in  this  final  volume. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 

To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed, 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast  — 
'Tis  found  above,  in  heaven. 


290 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  ; 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 
And  find  repose  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls, 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven  ; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear —  'tis  heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given,  — 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 
And  all  serene  in  heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers,  immortal,  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given  : 
There  ra}Ts  divine  disperse  the  gloom  — 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 

Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 


291 


RETURN   OF   THE   JEWS. 


Will  he  never  return  ?     Will  the  Jew- 
In  exile,  eternally  pine  ? 
By  the  multitude  scorned,  pitied  only  by  few, 
Will  he  never  his  vows  to  Jehovah  renew 
Beneath  his  own  olive  and  vine  ? 

Will  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  to  him  burn 

For  aj-e,  who  the  Nazarene  vexed  ? 
Will  not  the  Lord's  slayer  in  penitence  learn, 
And  the  nailer,  and  spearman,  and  mocker  return, 

For  his  crime  deeply  stirred  and  perplexed  ? 

Will  he  dwell  with  the  Gentiles,  who  slight 

His  shrine,  and  make  traffic  their  god  ? 
Slink  in  alleys  and  avenues  where  the  dark  rite 
Of  London  is  offered  to  Mammon,  of  right, 
Whose  fathers  Jerusalem  trod  ? 

Will  he  yield  up  his  treasures  of  wealth 
On  the  rack,  at  the  gibbet  and  stake  ? 

Shall  his  wife,  daughters,  sons,  shall  his  ease  and 
his  health, 

Ay,  and  life,  be  cut  off,  or  enjoyed  but  in  stealth  ? 
Shall  he  not  from  such  tyranny  break  ? 


292 


Will  he  crouch  'neath  Mohammed's  control, 

In  subxirbs,  pent  up  like  a  thief? 
And  drink  of  contempt,  and  reproachings,  the  bowl, 
Who  of  chivalry  once,  and  of  honor  was  soul, 

Whose  nation  of  nations  was  chief? 


Shall  his  oil  and  his  wine  ne'er  be  reapt  ? 

Shall  his  harp  hang  by  Euphrates'  tide  ? 
Whose  music  of  sweetness  for  ages  hath  slept, 
O'er  whose  strings  hath  no  finger  of  cheerfulness 
swept, 

In  songs  of  deliverance  and  pride  ? 

Shall  he  ne'er  at  the  festival's  sheen, 

The  new  moon,  or  Sabbath  attend  ? 
Where  Zion  in  beauty  and  glory  was  seen, 
Where  shoutings  went  up,  trumpets  calling  between, 

While  praises  were  wont  to  ascend  ? 

Where  the  censer  gave  odorous  perfume, 

Where  the  Holy  of  Holies  had  place, 
Where  the  almond  of  Aaron  was  laid  up  in  bloom, 
Where  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  had  resting  and  room, 

Where  Shechinah  gave  token  of  grace  ? 

Zion  !  name  that  brings  freshly  the  sigh  ; 

Zion  !  name  at  which  tears  freely  fall ; 
Where  the  mosque  of  the  prophet  peers  proudly  and 

high, 
Where  the  Muzzein  at  noon  gives  idolatrous  cry, 

Where  Allah  is  worshipped  of  all ! 


293 


'Tis  the  Zion,  oh,  God  !  which  thy  arm 

Still  embraces,  for  her  hast  thou  set 
Most  safe  in  thy  love,  deeply  graved  on  thy  palm, 
Secure  from  defilement,  and  terror,  and  harm, 

Her  bulwarks  before  thee  are  yet. 

And  thy  oath  !  —  'twas  to  Abraham  given  ! 

Thy  servant,  devoted  to  thee  — 
As  the  sands  on  the  shore,  as  the  leaves  by  winds 

driven, 
As  the  hosts  that  then  studded  the  Syrian  heaven, 

So  his  children  uncounted  should  be  ! 

Like  kings  on  their  conquering  car, 

They  return  !  for  their  bondage  is  burst ;  — 

"  My  sons  shall  be  gathered,  my  datighters  from  far  ; 

To  bear  them  where  shines  Jacob's  beautiful  Star, 
Lo,  Tarshish  with  ships  shall  be  first !  " 

I  see  them  !  I  see  them  !  behold  ! 

Every  stream,  sea  and  ocean  is  white, 
Where  their  canvass  points  home,  where  their  stan- 
dard's broad  fold 
Waves  on  to  the  East,  as  it  waved  once  of  old, 

When  the  Ark  moved,  enveloped  in  light ! 

I  see  them  !  how  wondrous  the  crowd ! 

From  Ganges,  from  Humber,  from  Nile, — 
As  doves  to  their  windows,  they  fly  as  a  cloud  ; 
How  roll  their  hosannas  !  how  lordly  and  loud 

Horn  and  timbrel  give  answer  the  while  ! 


294 


Be  lifted,  ye  gates  !  for  'tis  He 

Once  led  by  the  rabble  to  die, 
Once  spit  on,  and  thorn-crowned,  and  hung  on  a  tree, 
Now  worshipped,  anointed,  exalted  to  be 

A  Prince  and  a  Saviour  on  high. 

Who  is  He  that  of  glory  is  king  ? 

To  whom  shall  be  lifted  the  gates  ? 
Shout,  thousands  of  Israel  !  ye  worshippers,  bring 
Oblations  !     Let  earth  with  her  jubilee  ring  ! 

The  crown  for  the  Nazarene  waits  ! 

Then,  Christian,  reproaches  and  stain 

No  longer  give  thou  to  the  Jew  ; 
For  gathered  in  gladness  to  Zion  again, 
He  will  own  that  Messiah,  appointed  to  reign, 

Has  come,  the  Great  Witness  and  True. 


MISSIONS 


MISSIONS. 


Spirit  of  Missions  !     Spark  of  genuine  flame  ! 
In  God  or  man  developed,  still  the  same. 
The  same,  where'er  Messiah's  followers  go, — 
Lights  of  the  world,  —  to  scatter  light  below. 
The  same,  where  rise  the  gorgeous  temple's  walls, 
And  where  on  Heaven  the  forest  suppliant  calls. 
The  same  that  bids  the  herald  tempt  the  wave 
For  burning  India,  her  lost  sons  to  save  : 
Or  prompts  unnamed  philanthropy  to  trace 
Through  lanes  and  alleys,  misery's  dwelling  place. 
The  same,  where'er  benevolence  is  known, — 
Lingering  in  hovels,  seated  on  the  throne  ; 
Thee,  Spirit  !  we  discern,  and  hail  thee  now, 
Essence  divine,  —  Religion's  daughter,  Thou  ! 

Ere  in  the  void  the  firmament  was  hung, 
Creation's  birth  ere  stars  and  seraphs  sung, 
Thou  hadst  thy  being.     Thousand,  thousand  times 
Ten  thousand  harps  had  woke  immortal  chimes 
To  thy  sweet  praises,  and  the  song  above 
To  thee  was  rendered,  known  in  heaven  as  Love. 


298 


Say,  who  of  mortals  introduced  thee  here, 
And  brought  celestial  blessedness  so  near  ? 
Say,  who  of  man  the  sandal  girded  first, 
To  seek  a  welcome,  or  shake  off  its  dust  ? 
Peace  at  the  door  to  leave,  or  doom,  more  dread 
Than  that  which  fell  on  guilty  Sodom's  head  ? 
Nay,  no  mere  mortal  first  that  passage  trod, 
The  Prince  of  missions  was  the  Son  of  God  ! 
Behold  him,  in  the  opening  blush  of  youth, 
In  his  own  temple  !     See  the  Life,  the  Truth, 
Pointing  to  venerable  men  the  way 
That  scribes  may  miss,  —  from  which  the  sage  may 

stray. 
While  scanning  there  the  Missionary  Boy, 
The  skill  of  ancients  finds  perplexed  employ  ; 
They  listen,  wondering,  —  and  subdued  is  pride, 
By  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Grace,  personified. 
Behold  him  in  his  Father's  work  engaged  ! 
Work  to  be  done,  though  unchained  demons  raged. 
The  lame  he  heals,  the  blind  to  sight  restores, 
And  resurrection  on  death's  chamber  pours;  — 
Type  of  the  power  the  God  possessed  within, 
To  cure  the  soul,  and  raise  the  dead  in  sin. 

Last  words  are  precious.     Who  that  bendeth  o'er 
The  form  so  loved,  so  soon  beheld  no  more, — 
And  marks  the  eye,  which,  at  the  spirit's  flight, 
Kindles  unwonted,  quenched  too  soon  in  night, — 
Doth  catch  not,  ere  they're  hushed  in  silent  death, 
The  lightest  whisper  of  the  parting  breath, 


299 


And  waits  and  watches  not,  in  painful  fear 
Lest  but  one  word  —  the  last  —  may  fail  his  ear  ? 
Oh,  how  intensely  Love  doth  gather  these  ! 
And  when  the  struggling  soul  has  gained  release, 
No  miser  treasures  gold  as  Love  will  hoard, 
And  to  the  tittle,  will  fulfil  each  word. 
Man  unto  man  is  faithful  :  —  is  he  thus 
To  God  ?     Past  centuries  !  ye  shall  answer  us. 

Twilight  was  gathering  o"er  the  Syrian  hills, 
And  day's  last  gleam  lay  on  Judea's  rills  ; 
The  soothing  silence  light's  departure  brings, 
Came,  gratefully,  on  sober  evening's  wings ; 
And  far  round  Bethany  the  influence  spread, 
Which  o'er  retirement's  hour  is  softly  shed  ; 
When  Jesus,  with  his  faithful  followers,  came 
On  final  errand.     Him  they  knew,  the  same 
Late  lost  in  death,  but  now  in  triumph  found, 
Revisiting  the  loved,  familiar  ground, — 
Martha  and  Mary's  town,  where  Lazarus  rose  ;  — 
There  doth  the  Saviour  all  his  love  disclose, 
And  give  his  last  command,  —  fulfilled,  when  sea, 
And  earth,  as  heaven,  to  Him  shall  subject  be  : 
"  Go,  ye,  and  teach  all  nations  ;  in  the  name 
Of  Love  eternal,  saving  love  proclaim." 
Finished  his  work,  —  the  great  commission  given, 
A  cloud  his  car,  the  God  ascends  to  heaven. 
Thus  are  we  answered  :  —  Eighteen  hundred  years 
Of  crime,  and  blood,  and  ignorance,  and  tears, 


300 


On  hoary  Olivet  have  dial  kept, 

And  o'er  her  Lord's  last  words,  the  Church  has  slept. 

Yet,  gracious  Saviour,  fell  thy  words  on  hearts 
Slow  to  believe,  and  faint  to  act  their  parts  ? 
Deemed  the  apostles  that  Jerusalem, 
Their  field,  appropriate,  would  suffice  for  them  ? 
And  feared  they  hardship,  and  that  hands  which  slew 
The  Master,  would  destroy  the  servant  too  ? 
Or,  passed  they  not  from  land  to  land,  in  turn, 
Like  flames  of  fire,  to  purify  and  burn  ! 
Thy  love,  alone,  constraining  them,  to  spread 
The  light  of  life  through  regions  of  the  dead  ? 
They  did,  —  and  Earth,  from  east  to  western  sea, 
From  north  to  south,  was  rendered  back  to  thee. 
Where  slept  that  spirit,  —  mighty,  godlike,  then, 
In  following  ages  ?     Saviour  !  why  slept  men  ? 

The  night,  that  lowered  upon  the  nations,  broke  ; 
The  slumbering  Church  to  duty  slowly  woke  ; 
And  here  and  there,  some  stars,  that  tokened  day, 
Were  seen  to  tremble  out  in  gladdening  ray  :  — 
Xavier  and  Swartz,  —  to  Europe  dimly  known, — 
With  glorious  lustre  on  the  Orient  shone. 
And  some  looked  out  along  this  western  sky, — 
Lights  of  God's  kindling,  which  may  never  die. 

Beauty  and  romance,  in  rich  tints,  are  flung1 
Round  David  Brainerd,  at  his  Crossweeksung. 


301 


'Tis  his,  the  Indian  proselytes  to  lave 
(The  Spirit's  work)  in  the  baptismal  wave  ; 
In  presence  of  the  sky,  and  their  wild  woods, 
With  solemn  music  of  their  native  floods. 
Himself,  a  young  disciple,  round  whom  stand, — 
Curious,  yet  grave, — the  sovereigns  of  the  land  ; 
Bending  dark  brows  ;  —  'neath  which  gleam  awe  and 

love 
For  him,  —  perchance  some  prophet  from  above  ! 
Beautiful  picture  !  — and  sublime,  as  fair  ; 
What  zeal,  and  hope,  and  self-denial  there  ! 

And  some  have  heard,  within  these  sacred  halls,2 
The  secret  voice  that  on  the  conscience  calls  ; 
And  pondered  o'er  in  yonder  hallowed  grove,3 
The  lofty  plan  to  spread  Redeeming  Love. 
The  vows  assumed  beneath  that  conscious  shade, 
By  Heaven  were  witnessed ; —  Heaven  has  seen  them 

paid. 
There  prayed  they,  humbly,  to  the  Source  Divine  ; 
There  found  they  wisdom  on  their  path  to  shine. 
Nor  faltered  they,  that  path  of  peril  known, 
Nor  thought  indulged  to  keep  from  God  his  own. 
Rejoiced  to  quell  ambition's  youthful  pride, — 
Rejoiced  to  climb  the  noble  vessel's  side, — 
A  highway  opened  for  them,  vast  and  wide, 
A  world  of  wo  before  them,  —  oh,  how  long 
By  us  neglected  !  —  Heaven,  forgive  the  wrong. 

Commerce  had  sent  her  barques  to  every  sea  ; 
The  spangled  banner  of  the  daring  Free 


302 


Had  tossed  its  haughty  folds  on  every  wind, 
Long,  long  before  —  in  mercy  to  mankind  — 
The  mission-keel  for  Jesus  ploughed  the  wave, 
With  register  of  things  that  reach  beyond  the  grave. 

'Tis  brave  to  see  a  gallant  ship, 

With  snowy  pinions,  fly 
Across  the  ocean,  like  a  bird, 

Beneath  a  pleasant  sky. 
'Tis  brave  to  think  what  precious  things 

Are  heaped  up  in  her  hold,  — 
What  goodly  merchandize  she  brings, 

And  jewelry  and  gold. 

How  lofty  is  her  carriage,  when 

She  sitteth  on  the  deep  ; 
Her  streamers  loose,  her  canvass  spread, 

The  rolling  seas  to  sweep  ! 
The  loud  hurrah,  —  the  sailor's  cheer, — 

The  tumult  and  the  strife, — 
The  laugh,  the  farewell,  and  the  tear  ; 

She  is  a  thing  of  life  ! 

Yet  braver  sight  I  deem  it  is, 

And  goodlier,  when  a  ship, 
With  Mercy's  heralds,  doth  her  wing 

In  yonder  waters  dip  ;  — 
A  burden  bearing,  richer  far 

Than  gold,  or  cunning  gem, — 
Yea,  wafting  tidings  of  the  star 

That  shines  from  Bethlehem  ! 


303 

More  blessed  than  the  royal  ships 

Of  Solomon,  that  seas 
Once  traversed,  for  the  peacocks,  gums, 

And  spice  and  almug  trees. 
With  other  errand  than  the  barque 

Which  hoists  the  slaver's  sail, — 
On  whose  deck  pours  the  curse  of  One 

Who  hears  the  Negro's  wail. 

Thrice  blessed  !  for  she  doth  fulfil 

His  high  intent,  who  gave 
A  passage  through  all  latitudes, 

A  path  on  every  wave,  — 
And  gave  the  needle  law  to  turn, 

Obedient,  to  the  pole, 
That  His  own  word  may  journey  on, 

And  visit  every  soul. 

Oh,  'tis  a  holy  thought,  that  men 

May  watch,  and  toil,  and  strive, 
And  stir  with  enterprise  the  land, 

And  make  the  seas  alive  ; 
And  open  up  new  avenues 

Which  traffic  never  trod, 
Only,  that  earth  by  these  may  be 

A  highway  for  our  God  ! 

On  !  on  !  —  degraded  Africa 

In  this  good  ship  has  part ; 
A  pulse  of  joy  shall  quickly  beat 

Throughout  her  mighty  heart ;  — 
20 


304 

And,  from  her  farthest  pyramid, 

Down  to  her  southern  line, 
When  Freedom  reigns,  what  exile  will 

Look  homeward,  to  repine  ? 

On  !  on  !  —  the  iEgean  (glorious  sea  !) 

Before  us  gaily  smiles  ; 
And  those  rich  emeralds  on  its  breast, 

The  lovely  Grecian  Isles  ; 
And  when  upon  each  isle  the  Cross 

Is  reared  to  happy  men, 
We  will  not  dwell  on  farewell  tears, 

In  memory's  sadness  then. 

Where  Housatonic  quietly  is  seen 
Winding  its  silver  path  through  vales  of  green,  - 
Such  as  New  England  only  boasts,  —  one  dwelt, 
Who  followed  busily  the  world,  yet  knelt 
Daily  and  truly  at  a  better  shrine, — 
For  this  life  wise,  and  wise  for  life  divine. 
One  hapless  morn,  his  duties  seemed  to  ask 
That  on  the  river  he  should  ply  his  task. 
A  storm  had  swept  the  waters.     Chafing  still, 
The  billows  vexed  the  shore,  and  he  from  ill 
Must  save  his  craft,  which  at  their  mercy  lay  ; 
So,  cheerfully  to  labor,  went  his  way. 

He  sought  the  angry  stream,  and  from  its  bed 
That  evening's  shadows  saw  him  taken,  dead. 
The  widow  (name  of  anguish  !   silence  best 
May  tell  her  sorrows.)  sank  at  first,  oppressed. 


305 


A  Christian  widow,  yet  was  she,  whose  trust 

Was  firm  in  God,  who  laid  her  hopes  in  dust. 

Rites  all  performed  to  the  departed  due, 

She  to  her  chamber  with  her  babes  withdrew, 

And  kneeling  by  them,  in  prevailing  prayer 

Poured  out  a  mother's  ardent  wishes  there. 

To  Him,  who  makes  the  fatherless  his  care, 

She  gave  them  up  ;  —  then,  on  the  curling  head 

Of  her  first-born,  she  laid  her  hand,  and  said  : 

"  Samuel !  — my  son  !  — my  eldest !  —  you  have  now 

No  father  here  to  love  you  :  —  if  you  bow 

To  Christ,  your  Saviour,  though  severe  this  rod, 

He'll  be  your  Father,  and  your  gracious  God." 

Smiling  in  tears,  she  rose,  and  found  relief, 

Thenceforth  in  faith,  for  this  her  bitter  grief. 

That  eager  boy,  led  by  maternal  love, 

Trod  the  safe  ways  that  surely  tend  above. 

And  now,  though  dead,  Heaven  all  the  faith  fulfils 

Of  her,  the  ancestor  of  sainted  Mills. 

Oh,  mother,  take  thy  little  son  — 

A  path  to  him  unknown,— 
And  lead  him  to  the  holy  Cross  ; 

He  cannot  go  alone  ;  — 
And  teach,  betimes,  those  rosy  lips, 

Ere  stain  may  gather  there, 
To  lisp  of  God  ;  those  infant  knees 

Oh,  teach  to  bow  in  prayer. 


306 

He  looks  to  thee  in  confidence, — 

He  knows  no  other  love  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  guide  that  trusting  one 

To  better  hope  above  ? 
He  asks  in  sweet  simplicity 

To  have  his  wants  supplied, — 
Wilt  thou  not  teach  him  how  to  crave 

Of  One,  who  will  not  chide  ? 

Thy  heart  is  all  alarm,  if  pain 

Afflict  his  languid  limb, — 
It  soothes  thee,  if  thou  mayst  but  ease 

One  pang  that  troubles  him  ;  — 
And  wilt  thou,  then,  unmindful  be, 

Lest  pains  without  control 
Should  end  in  death,  —  the  second  death 

Of  the  undying  soul  ? 

Oh,  look  on  his  uncertain  step 

Along  the  nursery  floor,  — 
And  think,  how  swift  those  feet  may  be 

To  seek  destruction's  door  ! 
Ay,  mother  !  others,  on  whose  birth 

As  bright  a  sun  has  shone, 
Have  in  their  follies  sunk  away, 

And  set  in  shame  alone. 

Oh,  think  !  thy  speech,  thy  action,  look, 

Have  influence  to-day, — 
And  still  shall  wield  their  influence 

When  worlds  have  fled  away. 


307 

Oh,  think,  that  an  unbidden  glance 

Has  power  on  such  an  one, 
To  shape  a  fiend's  or  seraph's  path, 

When  myriad  years  have  run  : 

That  this  dear  prattler  on  thy  knee, 

Whose  face  is  sunshine  now, 
May  swell  the  ranks  who  wear  the  curse 

Of  hell  upon  their  brow; 
Or,  with  a  harp,  like  that  on  which 

A  Paul  and  Payson  play, 
May  soar  and  sing,  where  perfect  love 

Makes  one  unclouded  day.4 

There  is  a  power  at  the  secluded  hearth 

Of  yon  New  England  household,  that  may  be 
Felt  by  the  dwellers  at  the  ends  of  earth, — 

Known  to  the  islands  of  the  distant  sea. 
Come  !  let  us  woo  the  waters,  and  repair 

To  Asia's  pleasant  gardens,  where  the  palm 
And  fig-tree  flourish  ;  and  the  gentle  air, 

Laden  with  citron,  yields  perpetual  balm. 
In  this  sweet  Isle-of- France  is  seen  the  grave, — 

Crowned  with  the  evergreen,  —  where  Harriet  5 
sleeps. 
What  tender  thoughts  speed  o'er  the  Indian  wave, 

Where  pilgrim  Love  for  her  fond  vigil  keeps  ! 
What   thousands,    roused   from    sleep,  have    caught 
Love's  flame  ! 

What  thousands  more  its  influence  shall  confess, 
Woke  by  the  thrilling  music  of  her  name, — 

And  venture  all  —  the  heathen  world  to  bless  ! 


308 


Unhappy  India  !  —  empire  of  the  sun  !  — 
Rich  in  the  gifts  of  nature,  yet  undone. 
Toil  has  been  given,  with  many  prayers  for  thee, 
That  thou  from  error's  bondage  mayst  be  free. 
Yet  time  rolls  on  ;  —  in  billows  deep  and  long, 
The  tide  rolls  on,  —  two  hundred  millions  strong, — 
Emptying  those  waves  of  life  into  the  sea 
Of  shoreless,  fathomless  eternity. 

To  urge  thee  downward  in  thy  course  of  wo, 
Hear  it,  high  Heaven  !  and  wonder,  Earth  below  ! 
The  Christian  lends  his  influence,  and  for  gain 
Adds  one  more  link  —  the  strongest  —  to  thy  chain. 
Thy  native  youth,  by  Europe's  science  taught, 
Obtain,  blest  boon,  the  privilege  of  thought ; 
And  seeking  truth  —  which  only  maketh  wise  — 
Detect  old  frauds  and  superstitious  lies; 
And  caste,  and  priest,  and  rite,  at  once  despise. 
Yet  led  not  by  philosophy  to  drink 
At  higher  streams,  they  loiter  on  the  brink 
Of  these  low  waters,  thirsty.     Who  will  show 
The  young  inquirers  where  those  fountains  flow, 
Of  which,  who  drink,  though  searching  long  in  vain, 
Shall  thenceforth  live,  and  never  thirst  again  ? 
Yonder  it  comes  !  —  instruction  from  the  West  ! 
Gleaned  from  the  dreg's  of  poison  that  infest 
Decaying  France  ;  the  precepts  of  Voltaire, 
And  Paine's  vile  gatherings  of  the  pit  are  there: 
Sent  out  by  men  who  tread  this  hallowed  strand,  — 
This  free  and  favored,  boasting  Christian  land, — 
Who,  rather  than  their  dreadful  gains  forego, 
Would  doom  their  race  to  everlasting  wo. 


309 


Better,  far  better,  that  the  Hindoo  lay, 

A  blinded  votary,  still,  to  senseless  clay, 

Or  sculptured  stone  :  —  for  him  it  had  been  well  : 

He  had  not  found,  at  last,  so  deep  a  hell. 

So  have  I  heard,  on  some  rude,  barbarous  coast, 
Where  ships  are  wrecked  and  mariners  are  lost, 
If  one,  perchance,  is  rescued  from  the  wave, 
'Tis  but  to  find  on  land,  a  surer  grave  ;  — 
The  robber  meets  him,  nor  regards  his  prayer, 
But  murders  whom  the  seas  and  tempests  spare. 

Joy  to  the  world  !  —  the  isles  that  ages  saw 
Vassals  of  sin,  now  wait  Messiah's  law. 
Forth  to  their  toil  the  missionaries  go, 
Gladly  to  lessen  human  guilt  and  wo. 
God  goes  before  them,  freely  to  prepare 
The  way  in  pagan  lands,  Salvation's  highway  there. 
And  while  breaks  on  them,  cloudlike,  Oahu, 

They  hear  the  far-off  cry,  —  "  the  tabu's  o'er  ! 
The  altar  and  the  God  demolished  too, 

What  Deity  shall  eome  to  Obookiah's  shore/  " 

He  comes  !  He  comes  !   whose  mission  'tis  to  save, 

And  raise  the  vilest  from  pollution's  grave. 

And  at  the  music  of  His  voice,  the  brand 

Of  death  drops  powerless  from  the  assassin's  hand. 

She,  that,  inhuman,  would  to  burial  give 

Her  living  babe,  consents  the  babe  shall  live- 


310 


The  feeble  parent,  sick,  or  worn  with  age, 
Is  left  no  more  to  glut  some  monster's  rage. 
The  tear  is  shed,  and  heaves  the  contrite's  sigh, 
Instead  of  strife,  and  Pe-le's  frantic  cry. 
And  stealing  o'er  the  plain  and  lovely  dell, 
How  strangely  sweet  !  —  is  heard  the  Sabbath  bell. 
The  word  proclaimed,  the  Spirit  comes  in  power ;  — 
'Tis  love's  reward, —  'tis  heaven's  rejoicing  hour. 

And  what  shall  mar  this  picture  ?  —  Blasts  from  hell 
May  not  destroy  what  God  secures  so  well. 
And  who  of  men,  if  devils  fail,  can  dim 
These  ocean-jewels,  fashioned  thus,  for  Him  ? 
What  savage  lands?  —  nay,  savage  they  were  not 
That  furnished  cargoes  of  the  bane,  to  blot 
These  pleasant  gardens  from  the  southern  deep, 
And  leave  the  Christian,  patriot,  man,  to  weep 
For  desolation,  wrought  along  this  shore, 
Known  to  the  elder,  sister  group  before. 
From  polished  climes  the  dreadful  besom  came 
To  sweep  these  islands ;  and  the  guilt  and  shame 
Lie  at  the  doors  of  holy  men,  whose  sum 
Of  cash  and  sin  is  swelled  by  cursed  New-England 
rum.6 

Cross  the  Pacific  to  our  western  coast, 
And  vice  of  darker  hue  shall  meet  thee.     Boast 
No  more  of  Christian  courtesy  ; — behold  ! 
How  fiendlike,  man,  —  in  villany,  how  bold  1 


311 


The  poor  Nez  Perces,  from  their  Oregon 
Yearly  allured  to  guilty  towns,  are  won 
To  foul  intemperance  and  lust;  —  then,  fraught 
With  seeds  of  sin,  are  to  their  kindred  brought ; 
Returned,  to  poison  with  pestiferous  breath 
The  simple  hordes,  and  scatter  moral  death.7 

Give  us  the  holy  Book,  said  they, 

Whose  writing  tells  of  hope  and  heaven  : 

Our  lot  is  sad,  and  dark  our  way  ; 

May  not  the  blessed  star  of  day, 

To  cheer  the  Indian's  path,  be  given  ? 

Ye've  urged  us  to  the  farthest  West, 

From  hunting-ground,  and  teeming  river  : 
Your  corn  grows  on  our  mother's  breast,  — 
We're  trodden  down,  abused,  oppressed, 
And  Manitoo  will  not  deliver. 

We'll  look  to  lands  that  may  be  ours, 

Of  running  streams,  and  forests  vernal ; 
Where  brave  men,  in  those  happy  bowers, 
Pass,  joyfully,  the  white- winged  hours 
That  brightly  link  the  years  eternal. 

We  want  the  Book  that  shows  the  way, — 
The  guide  to  poor,  lost  wanderers  given ;  — 

'Twill  make  us  glad,  while  here  we  stay ; 

The  white  man's  blessed  star  of  day 
Shall  lead  the  Indian  to  his  heaven. 


312 

The  white  man,  with  beguiling  talk, 

Allured  the  Indian  to  his  city, 
Where  crime  is  seen  in  shameless  walk, 
And  mad  intemperance  doth  stalk, 

And  glares  the  eye  that  knows  not  pity ; 

Then  thrust  him  thence,  a  ruined  one, 
An  outcast,  loathsome,  and  heart-broken  ; 

He  begs  once  more,  —  the  wretch,  undone, — 

The  holy  Book  that  warns  to  shun 

Such  wo,  of  heavenly  love  the  token  ; 

His  cards  the  white  man  proffered  then, — 
Hell's  printed  leaves  ;  at  such  endeavor 
Of  wickedness,  beyond  his  ken, 
The  devil  blushed,  yet  triumphed,  when 
He  saw  the  victim  lost  for  ever. 

Spirit  of  Missions,  wake  !  —  thou  art  awake 
If  we  may  Popery  trust.     See,  where  they  break 
Away,  in  locust  swarms,  from  fruitful  Rome, 
To  rear  the  papal  throne  in  Freedom's  home  ; 
And  teach  our  sons  to  own  a  foreign  power  ; 
Our  daughters  take,  with  modesty's  rich  dower, 
And  wed  them  to  the  Lord.     Yea,  bind  the  free 
With  magic  influence  of  Saint  Peter's  key  ! 
Yet,  would  you  learn  their  fitness,  and  how  wise 
Are  such  to  win  the  young,  a  sketch  may  well  suffice. 
If  e'er  to  classic  Italy  you  go, 
Look  at  the  schools  which  good  Borromeo, 


313 


Milan's  archbishop,  founded.     Popery  keeps 
Its  vigils  there,  while  better  precept  sleeps. 
Sunday  is  chosen  ;  yet  not  Sunday  schools 
Deem  these,  though  subject  to  religion's  rules. 
Behold  them  in  the  vast  cathedral,  where, 
Sexes  apart,  they  sit  with  solemn  air, 
And  listen,  as  the  skilful  priest  explains 
The  sinner's  loss,  —  the  devotee's  sure  gains. 
No  Bible  in  the  pupil's  hand  is  seen, — 
No  library  book  adorns  his  desk  of  green. 
And  yet  some  guerdon  waits  the  heavy  task 
Of  due  attendance.     From  kind  Heaven  ask 
These  priests  indulgences  for  sin,  to  pay 
The  hireling  scholars  on  each  Sabbath  day. 
And,  without  sigh,  or  penitential  grief, 
Scores  are  wiped  out  by  the  old  pontiff's  brief: 
Then  homeward  troop  they,  —  mingling  smiles  and 

tears, — 
Absolved,  some  five,  and  some  five  hundred  years.8 

Dear  native  land  !   'tis  said,  in  Heaven's  decree, 
That  glorious  things  are  spoken  yet  of  thee. 
That  to  fulfil  some  high  intent,  God  gave 
Thy  early  fathers  passage  o'er  the  wave  ; 
And  led  those  pilgrims  on  their  stormy  way, 
His  ark  to  shelter  in  yon  wintry  bay. 
Where  they,  obscure,  despised,  in  very  need, 
Planted  in  these  rude  hills  most  precious  seed. 
And  watched  its  growth,  and  watered  well  its  root, 
And  saw  it  redolent  of  leaves  and  fruit,  — 


314 


Till,  their  faith  realized,  the  giant  tree 

Has  stretched  its  hundred  arms  from  sea  to  sea. 

Has  Heaven  done  this,  —  and  shouldst  not  thou 
engage 
In  strife  for  Heaven,  and  its  last  battle  wage  ? 
Shouldst  thou  not  speed  salvation's  message,  thus, 
As  widely,  freely,  as  the  common  curse  ? 
In  every  spot  where  wasting  sin  has  rule, 
Plant  God's  own  nursery,  the  Sunday  school  ? 
Give  to  his  Bible  wings,  and  bid  it  go 
Where  guilt  is  found,  and  guilt's  companion,  wo  ? 
Nor  stay  thy  labor  till  the  Eternal  Son 
Smiles  on  a  world  to  his  dominion  won  ? 

Is  Wealth  required  ?    Of  earth's  superfluous  gold, 
A  mite  would  win  her  back  to  Jesus'  fold. 
Its  fountains  are  not  sealed  ;  —  yon  playhouse  shows 
When  folly  calls  for  wealth,  it  freely  flows. 
Is  talent,  time,  or  zeal  required  ?  —  all  these 
That  playhouse  has,  at  full  command,  to  please. 
See  there,  for  sin,  how  willingly  engage, 
With  all  the  heart,  the  votaries  of  the  stage  ! 
Who  strut  and  trifle,  mock  and  laugh  away, 
In  mimic  joy  arid  sorrow,  life's  poor  day. 
Thousands  they've    lulled    with    pleasure's   syren 

song, 
Ten  thousand  witched  to  death  by  sorcery  strong. 
What  bitter  tears  have  wretched  fathers  shed 
O'er  manly  sons,  —  of  promise,  early  fled, — 


315 


What  stricken  mothers,  silently,  have  laid 
A  broken  heart  to  rest,  where  tomb-flowers  fade, 
For  lovely  daughters,  sunk  away  in  shame, 
Allured,  betrayed  ;  for  ever  lost  their  name, 
Amid  enticements  of  the  playhouse,  where 
The  soil  is  sin,  —  pollution's  breath  the  air  ; 
What  hopes,  what  bliss,  what  prospects  of  earth's 

good, 
What  gold,  what  pearls,  what  bodies,  souls,  this  flood 
Of  vast  iniquity  has  gorged,  none  may 
Or  count,  or  guess;  the  last  revealing  day 
Will  to  the  world,  in  the  world's  pyre-light,  show 
What  wealth  was  whelmed  in  this  abyss  of  wo.9 

Is  Chivalry  required,  which  youth  inspires  ? 
'Tis  here,  indeed,  though  lawless  are  its  fires. 
In  honor,  nice,  it  calls  aloud  for  blood, 
And  will  obtain  it,  —  spite  of  man  or  God. 
From  yonder  capital  ye  heard  its  cry, 
When  for  their  idol,  fools  agreed  to  die. 
When  was  forgotten  each  appealing  claim 
Of  right  or  country,  —  wife  and  child,  —  a  name 
Was  periled,  and  in  contest  for  a  shade, 
Forth  went  the  duellist  on  high  crusade. 

Yes,  ye  are  honorable,  all, 

In  Congress,  there's  no  doubt; 

Your  chivalry  ice  may  not  call 
In  question,  who  are  out. 


10 


316 

Oh,  no !  and  yet  there's  fresh,  warm  blood 

Upon  your  hands  to-day  ; 
And  earth  has  drunk  the  purple  flood 

Its  streams  can't  wash  away. 
Blood,  too,  which  in  their  coward  haste, 

Men,  who  from  conscience  shrink, 
Have  dared,  like  Druids,  damned,  to  taste, 

And  given  their  god  to  drink. 
Shame  !   where 's  thy  blush  ?  we  saw  it,  when 

We  searched  some  felon's  cell ; 
But  with  such  honorable  men, 

Shame  may  not,  cannot  dwell  ! 

I  saw  the  deck  of  the  tall  vessel,  when 
'Twas  place  of  interest  to  God  and  men. 
Her  sails,  all  loosened  to  the  ready  breeze, 
Her  pennons,  pointing  to  the  distant  seas, 
Told  us,  the  graceful  traveller,  under  weigh 
For  foreign  climes,  must  shortly  cleave  the  bay. 
And  who  are  these  that  gather  round  her  ?  some 
Are  whispering  solace  —  others,  grief  makes  dumb. 
That  old  man,  on  the  verge  of  heaven,  takes 
Farewell  of  him,  who  sire  and  home  forsakes. 
The  bride  is  there — a  tender,  gentle  girl, 
Lost  for  the  moment  in  the  varying  whirl 
Of  sorrow,  joy,  and  blessed  hope,  as  sever 
Those  who  on  earth  again  shall  mingle  never. 
She  hangs  upon  her  mother  ; —  who  may  tell, 
Oh,  holy  nature,  what  strong  feelings  swell 


317 


Within  that  mother's  bosom  !     And  they  go, 
Where  mercy  guides,  to  nations  sunk  in  wo. 
Yet  think  not  'tis  in  sorrow,  —  that  hour's  bliss 
Comes  from  another  world  ;   'twas  never  known  to 
this. 

That  youth  will  labor,  suffer  there,  in  strife 
Witli  idol  powers.     That  female  will  her  life 
Yield  up,  —  if  need  be,  —  where  the  banyans  bloom, 
Where  no  kind  kindred  hand  may  deck  her  tomb, 
Where  savage  beasts,  or  men,  more  savage,  roam, — 
Far  from  her  much  loved  Massachusetts  home  ; 
And  the  sweet  sympathies  which  bless  her  lot, 
Who  languishes  and  dies  in  the  dear  spot 
That  saw  her  birth.     The  cloud  of  canvass  spread, 
The  ship  departs  ;  the  mission-path  they  tread. 
Yet  one  last  word,  last  wish  expressed,  (it  swells 
Along  the  whisper  of  their  sad  farewells,) 
Asks,  when  of  prayer  we  taste  the  soothing  power, 
We'll  ne'er  forget  them,  —  never,  in  that  hour. 

Welcome,  the  hour  of  interceding  prayer  ! 
Welcome,  the  place  of  precious  concert  !   where, 
With  one  accord,  the  Christian  suppliants  meet, 
And  lay  the  heathen  world  at  Jesus'  feet. 
The  flame,  lit  up  on  the  far  Sandwich  shore, 
Catches  from  land  to  land,  and  passes  o'er 
Ocean  and  continent,  till,  like  a  robe 
Of  glory,  prayer  encompasses  the  globe. 


318 


Yet  deem  not  prayer,  or  gold  will  ever  win 
Earth  from  the  grasp  of  unrelenting  sin. 
Not  these  alone ;  —  there  must  be  quenchless  zeal, 
And  love  untiring,  —  which  like  love  can  feel, 
And  toil,  as  Love  did  ;  gladly,  wholly,  so 
That  heaven,  all  love,  may  dwell  with  men  below. 

Think  not  the  work  is  done,  or  well  nigh  done ; 

To  "pray  and  pay  "  some  few  days,  and  the  Son 

Will  surely  enter  on  his  kingdom  —  No  ! 

The  mighty  toil  is  but  commenced  ;  and  think, 

How  little  is  accomplished  !  —  On  the  brink 

Of  ruin,  yet  how  many  millions  stand  ! 

How  few,  alas,  of  that  immortal  band 

Will  reach  immortal  life  !  —  who  of  us,  then, 

Delays  exertion  for  these  fellow  men  ? 

Oh,  while  we  linger,  lingers  not  death's  power ; 

And  hell  has  won  its  thousands  in  this  hour ! 

Thou  precious  Gospel !  power  is  seen  in  thee, 
From  every  yoke,  to  set  all  captives  free. 
Where  thy  pure  influence  is  truly  felt, 
Spurned  are  all  idol  gods  to  which  man  blindly  knelt. 
Hark  !  to  a  voice  o'er  glad  Caribbean  waves,11 
Telling  that  men  walk  forth,  no  longer  slaves. 
The  fetters  broke,  —  for  ever  unconfined, 
Henceforth  expatiates  the  immortal  mind, — 
Doing,  what  mind,  free  as  its  Giver,  can, 
To  prove  the  affinity  of  God  to  man. 


319 


'Tis  much,  that  now  the  tiller  of  the  soil 

Shall  henceforth  reap  the  harvest  of  his  toil ; 

'Tis  much  —  no  longer  in  the  world  alone, 

He  feels  home's  treasures  are  indeed  his  own. 

No  tyrant's  hand  shall  on  his  wife  be  laid, 

No  ruffian  dealer  in  his  children  trade;  — 

Nor  to  the  cord  and  whip  shall  subject  be 

The  body,  —  yea,  'tis  more,  —  the  soul  is  free  ! 

The  soul,  once  bought  with  priceless  blood,  and  sold 

By  man,  unblushingly,  for  sordid  gold. 

What  earthquake  cry  has  on  that  prison  broke, 

And  from  the  guiltless  captive  loosed  the  yoke  ? 

The  same  strong  voice  that  rocked  Philippi's  cell, 

Has  wrought  Emancipation  work,  so  well  ! 

The  Gospel's  influence  stooped  to  melt  the  chain, 

And  bring  up  man  to  sit  with  men  again. 

Oh,  speed  it,  then  !   till  on  our  millions  fall 

Its  warmth  and  light,  which  play  upon  the  wall 

Of  their  sad  dungeon,  and,  barred  out  by  sin, 

As  yet,  with  blest  deliverance,  shine  not  in. 

Spirit  of  Missions  !  art  thou  not  still  found 
Within  this  presence,  awfully  around  ! 
Spirit  of  Missions  !  hast  thou  not  a  throne 
In  some  hearts  here,  accepted  as  thine  own, 
That  burn  to  herald  the  Redeemer's  name, 
In  far  off  lands  ;  content  with  pain  and  shame, 
Sickness  and  sorrow  —  death  itself — if  they 
Might  win  some  souls  where  wretched   millions 
stray  ; 

21 


320 


And  lay  their  bones  in  some  unnoticed  grave, 
Where  Burmah's  gardens  bloom,  or  Jordan's  palm- 
trees  wave  ? 

What  recollections  crowd  upon  ye  still,  — 
Ye  who  inquire,  and  learn  your  Master's  will,12 
As,  often  gathering  in  these  sacred  halls, 
Ye  counsel,  pray,  and  ponder  o'er  the  calls 
From  the  far  heathen  !     Oh,  how  kindly,  then 
Comes  on  the  heart  remembrance  of  the  men 
Who  sat  where  thus  ye  sit,  in  like  employ,  — 
Redemption  their  high  theme  —  its  work  their  joy  ! 
Where  are  they  ?     Memory  repeats  it,  "where  !  " 
The  sea  has  some,  and  some  sepulture  share 
With  the  poor  Hindoo  :  —  will  ye  follow,  too  ? 
The  foe  is  strong  —  our  warriors  are  but  few. 

Jericho,  when  the  trump  of  jubilee 
Rang  round  her  walls  the  anthem  of  the  free, 
Trembled  to  her  vast  centre.     Reeling,  fell 
Rampart  and  tower,  as  by  some  mighty  spell. 
God  did  it.     Vain  that  Levite  trumpeter, 
With  holy  ark,  should  seven  days  compass  her. 
Not  these  !  not  these  !  His  own  Almighty  blast 
Her  pomp  and  glory  did  to  ruin  cast ; 
Yea,  swept  from  earth  her  very  name,  that  none 
Of  her  rebellious  seed  might  glean  a  stone. 
Thus  will  it  ever  be.     The  only  song  — 
Bewildering  devils  with  its  heavenly  call  — 
At  whose  high  summons  gates  shall  open  wide, 


321 


Walls  crumble,  and  from  Satan's  captive  throng 
The  dreadful  fetters  shall  for  ever  fall, 
Is  that  of  Freedom  :  —  Go,  ye  heralds,  go  ! 
And  strong  in  Israel's  God,  —  in  God,  who  died 
To  free  a  world,  —  salvation's  trumpet  blow. 

"  Come  !  "  cry  the  nations,  deeply  sunk  in  wo  ; 
Go  !  — for  a  secret  voice  hath  bid  you  "  Go." 
Yes,  and  another  voice  speaks  from  the  tomb, 
Just  closed  o'er  talent,  worth,  and  youthful  bloom. 
He  speaks,  who  yesterday  assumed  the  shield, 13 
Here,  in  your  ranks,  prepared  to  take  the  field, 
And  of  his  weapon  made  one  proof  below. 
He  from  his  coffin  speaks,  and  bids  you  "  Go  !  " 
Yes,  from  his  glory  says,  "  Brief  life  —  well  trod 
Its  path  of  duty  —  surest  leads  to  God  !  " 

Pass  on,  ye  hours  !     Oh,  haste  to  joyful  birth, 
Thou  day  !  so  long  foretold,  when  ruined  earth  — 
The  only  planet  on  which  rays  divine, 
Of  love,  complacent,  do  not  fully  shine, — 
The  only  star  of  all  the  glittering  train 
That  onward  rolls,  and  seems  to  roll  in  vain,  — 
Shall  be  restored  to  His  exalted  sway, 
Whom  atoms  serve,  and  worlds  immense  obey. 

It  comes  !  it  comes  !  —  already  I  behold 
Millennial  splendors  to  all  lands  unrolled. 
Issuing  in  glory  from  her  night  of  woes, 
What  wondrous  scenes  doth  earth  to  heaven  disclose ! 


322 


Sin,  the  destroyer,  and  its  fruits,  unknown, — 
Religion  treads  an  Eden  now  her  own. 
What  millions  gather  at  the  hallowed  time, 
When  labor  pauses  at  the  Sabbath's  chime  ! 
What  little  ones  are  grouped,  in  flocks,  untold, 
Within  the  Sabbath  School's  delightful  fold  ! 
And  every  lamb,  led  by  the  Shepherd,  seen 
By  sparkling  founts,  in  fields  of  living  green. 
No  hasting  heralds  search  the  heathen  world ; 
On  every  hill,  behold  !  the  Cross  unfurled. 
Peace  o'er  the  nations  in  rich  beauty  shed, 
One  family  of  love,  —  one  Church,  —  one  Head; 
And  earth  returned  from  bondage,  guilt  and  tears, 
A  weary  wanderer  of  six  thousand  years  ! 


NOTES. 


1.  Sparks's  American  Biography. 

2.  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  where  this  poem  was  de- 
livered. 

3.  In  connection  with  Messrs.  Newell,  Judson,  Xott,  and  Hall, 
he  held  frequent  consultations  on  this  momentous  subject,  which 
resulted  in  a  resolution  to  combine  their  exertions  for  effecting  a 
mission  to  foreign  lands.  There  is  a  beautiful  grove  that  spread? 
itself  in  the  rear  of  the  buildings  of  the  Andover  Theological 
Seminary  ;  and  "  along  that  shady  walk,"  says  one  of  his  fellow 
missionaries,  "  where  I  have  often  walked  alone,  Mr.  Mills  has 
frequently  been  my  companion,  and  there  urged  the  importance 
of  missions  to  the  heathen.  And  when  we  had  reached  some 
sequestered  spot,  where  there  was  no  fear  of  interruption,  he 
would  say,  — '  Come,  God  can  guide  us  right ;  let  us  kneel  down 
and  pray  ;  '  and  then  he  would  pour  out  his  soul  in  ardent  sup- 
plication for  the  blessing  of  God,  and  the  guidance  of  his  Holy 
Spirit."'  —  Life  of  Samuel  J.  .Mills. 

4.  St.  Augustine,  that  sublime  genius,  that  illustrious  father 
and  great  luminary  of  the  church,  whose  fame  filled  the  whole 
Christian  world  in  the  latter  part  of  the  fourth,  and  beginning  of 
the  fifth  century,  was,  till  his  28th  year,  only  a  "  bitterness  to  her 
that  bore  him."  From  his  own  subsequent  confession,  he  waa 
deaf  to  the  voice  of  conscience  ;  he  broke  away  from  all  moral 
restraints,  and  spent  his  youth  amid  scenes  of  baseness  and  cor- 
ruption. But  in  all  his  wanderings,  that  depraved  young  man 
was  followed  by  a  weeping,  praying  mother.     Her  tears,  on  his 


324 


account,  watered  the  earth,  and  her  prayers  went  up  as  incense 
before  God.  "  It  is  not  possible,''''  said  a  certain  bishop,  in  reply 
to  her  importunity,  that  he  would  endeavor  to  reclaim  her  son, — 
"Good  woman,  it  is  not  possible  that  a  child  of  such  tears 
should  perish."  And  at  length  the  son  himself  carried  to  his 
praying  mother  the  news  of  his  conversion,  and  she  received 
"  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning,"  and  "  the  garment  of  praise  for 
the  spirit  of  heaviness."  —  Mother's  Magazine. 

5.  Harriet  Newell. 

6.  The  introduction  of  New  England  rum  into  the  Society  and 
Sandwich  Islands,  (sent  out,  too,  by  professors  of  the  Christian 
religion,)  has  accomplished  much  for  the  hindrance  of  the  Gos- 
pel among  the  abused  natives. 

7.  Astonishing  Disclosure.  —  A  friend  has  put  into  our  hands, 
for  publication,  the  following  extract  of  a  letter  from  Rev.  Mr. 
Spaulding,  missionary  on  Columbia  river,  dated  Feb.  16,  1837. 
The  truth  of  the  disclosures  cannot  be  doubted,  although  they 
are  almost  too  wicked  to  be  believed :  — 

"  Even  at  this  great  remove  from  the  fountains  of  moral  corrup- 
tion, a  small  rivulet,  now  and  then,  may  be  seen.  Every  year,  a 
greater  or  less  number  of  Nez  Perces  are  taken  to  St.  Louis,  and 
return,  (if  their  constitutions  outride  the  storms  of  intemperance 
and  licentiousness,)  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  moral  death  among 
their  unsuspecting  countrymen.  Nor  have  I  yet,  I  fear,  caused 
to  be  burnt  all  the  packs  of  cards  which  have  been  sold  for  the 
Bible  to  the  inoffensive  people,  long  seeking  for,  and  offering  any 
price  to  get  hold  of  that  precious  book.  So  the  devil  is  found  in 
sheep's  clothing,  even  on  the  Rocky  Mountains.  They  tell  me 
they  have  sometimes  given  a  horse  for  a  pack  of  cards,  which, 
they  were  told,  was  positively  the  Word  of  God  ;  but  which  they 
now  call  the  book  from  below.  They  say  they  have,  for  some  time, 
distrusted  the  men  that  would  bring  "  fire  water "  to  the  moun- 
tains, drink  it,  and  then  kill  each  other."  —  Boston  Courier. 


325 

8.  Rev  Daniel  Wilson's  Tour  through  Europe. 

9.  The  infidel  philosopher,  Rousseau,  declared  himself  to  be 
of  opinion  that  the  theatre  is,  in  all  cases,  a  school  of  vice — 
Though  he  had  himself  written  for  the  stage,  yet,  when  it  was 
proposed  to  establish  a  theatre  in  the  city  of  Geneva,  he  wrote 
against  the  project  with  zeal  and  great  force,  and  expressed  the 
opinion  that  every  friend  of  pure  morals  (and  of  youth)  ought  to 
oppose  it.  Alas,  that  which  infidelity  has  condemned  as  a  fruit- 
ful source  of  corruption  and  shame,  is  publicly  advocated  and 
patronized  in  our  midst,  —  yea,  more,  —  vindicated  and  patron- 
ized by  some  professing  godliness  ! 

10.  "  The  wind  was  so  Irish  that  they  could  not  shoot  with  ac- 
curacy ;  —  else  the  same  fate  might  have  fallen  to  Mr.  Graves. 
But,  sir, 

Happy  was  he  that  died; 

For  many  deaths  will  the  survivor  die. 

"  There  is  not  an  honorable  man  living,  who  knows  all  the 
circumstances,  that  would  not,  at  this  moment,  prefer  the  situa- 
tion of  Mr.  Cilley,  stiff  and  cold  as  he  is,  to  that  of  his  antagonist, 
and  of  his  antagonist's  seconds,  who  perpetrated  his  mitrder."  — 
Correspondent  of  the  .Veic  York  Gazette. 

11.  The  glorious  First  of  August,  1838. 

12.  Society  of  Inquiry  on  Missions. 

13.  Mr.  Homer  Taylor,  member  of  the  senior  class  at  the  The- 
ological Seminary,  at  Andover.  recently  preached  his  first  and 
last  sermon,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Institution,  and  then  entered 
into  the  joy  of  his  Lord. 


